M  U  F 


"SAPPER' 


(CYRIL  McNEILE) 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  HUMAN  TOUCH," 
"NO  MAN'S  LAND,"  "MICHAEL 
CASSIDY,  SERGEANT,"  "MEN, 
WOMEN  AND  GUNS,"  ETC. 


NEW  ^Sr  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,    1919, 
BY  GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  Or  AMERICA 


TO 
P.  B.  D. 


413128 


MUFTI 


MUFTI 

PROLOGUE 


THE  officer  lying  back  in  the  home-made  chair 
tilted  the  peak  of  his  cap  over  his  eyes  and  let 
his  book  slip  gently  to  the  ground.  A  few  moments 
later,  after  various  unavailing  waves  of  the  hand,  he 
pulled  out  a  handkerchief  of  striking  design  and  care- 
fully adjusted  it  over  his  face.  Then,  with  his  hands 
dug  deep  in  his  pockets  to  remove  even  a  square  inch 
of  skin  from  the  ubiquitous  fly,  he  prepared  to  slumber. 
And  shortly  afterwards  a  gentle  rise  and  fall  of  the 
centre  bulldog,  so  wonderfully  portrayed  on  the  band- 
ana, announced  that  he  had  succeeded. 

To  anyone  fresh  from  England  who  desired  to  see 
War  the  scene  would  have  been  disappointing.  There 
were  no  signs  of  troops  swinging  down  a  road,  sing- 
ing blithely,  with  a  cheery  smile  of  confidence  on  their 
faces  and  demanding  to  be  led  back  forthwith  to  battle 
with  the  Huns.  There  were  no  guns  belching  forth: 
the  grim  Panoply  of  War,  whatever  it  may  mean, 
was  conspicuous  by  its  absence.  Only  a  very  fat 
quartermaster-sergeant  lay  asleep  in  the  sun  and 
snored,  while  an  ancient  and  dissolute  old  warrior, 


io  ;M:UFTI 

near,  by,  TV  as:  engaged  ;in- .clearing  out  a  drain  as  part 
of  his  Field  'Ptthisnnierif/  and  had  just  discovered  a 
dead  dog  in  it.  He  was  not  singing  blithely :  he  had 
no  cheery  smile  of  confidence  on  his  face :  he  was  just 
talking — gently  to  himself. 

The  field  was  on  a  slight  ridge.  Above  the  camp 
there  floated  one  of  a  line  of  sausage  balloons,  and 
the  cable  to  which  it  was  attached  stretched  up  taut 
from  some  point  near  the  farmhouse  behind.  A  tri- 
angular flag,  like  a  burgee,  flew  straight  out  in  the 
breeze  from  half-way  up  the  cable,  and  the  basket, 
looking  absurdly  small,  hung  down  like  a  black  dot 
below  the  balloon. 

Peace  was  the  keynote  of  the  whole  situation.  In 
front  the  country  lay  stretched  out,  with  its  hedges 
and  trees,  its  fields  and  farmhouses.  In  certain  places 
there  ran  long  rows  of  poles  with  strips  of  brown  ma- 
terial stretched  between  them,  which  a  spectator  would 
rightly  conclude  was  camouflage  erected  to  screen  the 
roads.  Only  from  what?  Where  was  the  Boche  in 
this  atmosphere  of  sleep  and  quiet? 

Beyond  the  silent  countryside  rose  a  line  of  hills. 
They  seemed  to  start  and  finish  abruptly — an  ex- 
crescence in  the  all-pervading  flatness.  On  the  top  of 
the  near  end  of  the  line,  clear  cut  against  the  sky,  the 
tower  and  spires  of  a  great  building;  at  the  far  end, 
on  a  hill  separated — almost  isolated — from  the  main 
ridge,  a  line  of  stumps,  gaunt  tooth-pick  stumps  stand- 
ing stiffly  in  a  row.  There  was  no  sign  of  life  on  the 
hills,  no  sign  of  movement.  They  were  dead  and 
cold  even  in  the  warm  glow  of  the  afternoon  sun. 
Especially  the  isolated  one  at  the  far  end  with  its 


MUFTI  ii 

row  of  sentinel  trees.  There  was  something  ghostly 
about  it — something  furtive. 

And  then  suddenly  a  great  column  of  yellow  smoke 
rose  slowly  from  its  centre  and  spread  like  a  giant 
mushroom.  Another  and  another  appeared,  and  the 
yellow  pall  rolled  down  the  side  twisting  and  turning, 
drifting  into  the  air  and  eddying  over  the  dark,  grim 
slope.  Gradually  it  blotted  out  that  isolated  hill,  like 
fog  reeking  round  a  mountain  top,  and  as  one  watched 
it,  fascinated,  a  series  of  dull  booms  came  lazily 
through  the  air. 

"Jerry  gettin'  it  in  the  neck  on  Kemmel."  Two 
men  passing  by  were  regarding  the  performance  with 
perfunctory  interest,  while  the  purple  bulldog  still 
rose  and  fell,  and  the  dissolute  old  warrior  did  not 
cease  talking  to  himself. 

"Derek  scooped  the  bally  lot  as  usual."  An  officer 
appeared  at  the  entrance  of  a  tin  structure  in  one 
corner  of  the  field  with  a  bundle  of  letters  in  his  hand. 
"Look  at  the  dirty  dog  there — sleeping  like  a  hog — in 
the  only  decent  chair/* 

He  disappeared  inside  to  emerge  again  in  a  moment 
with  a  badminton  racket  and  shuttlecock.  "On  the 
bulldog — one  round  rapid  fire."  He  fired  and  with  a 
loud  snort  the  sleeper  awoke. 

"You  are  charged  with  conduct  to  the  prejudice, 
etc/'  said  the  marksman  severely,  "in  that  you  did 
spread  alarm  and  despondency  amongst  the  troops  by 
disguising  yourself  as  a  disease  and  making  noises 
indicative  of  pain." 

Derek  Vane  stretched  himself  and  stood  up.  "We 
are  feeling  well,  thank  you — and  require  nourishment. 
Does  tea  await  me,  and  if  not — why  not?"  He  took 


12  M  U  F  T  I 

his  mail  and  glanced  through  it.  "How  they  love  me, 
dear  old  boy !  What  it  is  to  be  young  and  good  look- 
ing, and  charm  .  .  ." 

There  was  a  loud  shout  and  the  deck  chair  became 
the  centre  of  a  struggling  mob.  Shortly  afterwards  a 
noise  of  ripping  canvas  announced  that  it  had  acted 
as  deck  chairs  have  acted  before  when  five  people  sit 
on  them  at  the  same  moment. 

"Look  out,  you  mugs,  you've  broken  it."  Vane's 
voice  came  dimly  from  the  ground.  "And  my  face 
is  in  an  ants'  nest." 

"Are  you  good  looking  and  charming?"  demanded 
an  inexorable  voice. 

"No.  Get  off,  Beetle ;  you've  got  bones  on  you  like 
the  human  skeleton  at  Barnum's." 

"What  are  you  like?"  pursued  the  same  inexorable 
voice. 

"Horrible,"  spluttered  Vane.  A  walking  night- 
mare; a  loathly  dream." 

"It  is  well — you  may  arise." 

The  mass  disintegrated,  and  having  plucked  the 
frame  of  the  chair  from  the  body  of  an  officer  known 
to  all  and  sundry  as  the  Tank — for  obvious  reasons — 
they  moved  slowly  towards  the  mess  for  tea. 

In  all  respects  an  unwarlike  scene,  and  one  which 
would  disappoint  the  searcher  after  sensation.  Save 
for  the  lorries  which  bumped  ceaselessly  up  and  down 
the  long  straight  road  below,  and  the  all-pervading 
khaki  it  might  have  been  a  scene  at  home  before  the* 
war.  The  yellow  fog  had  cleared  away  from  Kemmel, 
and  over  the  flat  country  the  heat  haze  rose,  shimmer- 
ing and  dancing  in  the  afternoon  sun.  In  the  field  next 
to  the  camp  an  ancient  Belgian  was  ploughing,  his  two 


MUFTI  13 

big  Walloon  horses  guided  by  a  single  cord,  while  from 
behind  the  farm  there  came  the  soft  thud-thud  of  a 
football. 

And  then  it  came.  In  a  few  seconds  the  air  was 
filled  with  the  thumping  of  Archie  and  the  distant 
crackle  of  machine-guns. 

"By  Jove!  there  he  is,"  cried  the  Tank.  "He's 
got  him  too." 

The  officers  halted  and  stared  over  the  dead  town 
of  Poperinghe,  where  flash  after  flash  of  bursting 
shrapnel  proclaimed  a  Boche  aeroplane.  They  saw 
him  dive  at  a  balloon — falling  like  a  hawk ;  then  sud- 
denly he  righted  and  came  on  towards  the  next. 
From  the  first  sausage  two  black  streaks  shot  out,  to 
steady  after  a  hundred  feet  or  so,  and  float  down, 
supported  by  their  white  parachutes.  But  the  balloon 
itself  was  finished.  From  one  end  there  glowed  for 
an  instant  a  yellow  furnace  of  fire.  Then  a  flame  shot 
up,  followed  by  clouds  of  black  smoke.  Like  a  stone, 
the  basket  crashed  down,  passing  the  two  white,  drift- 
ing specks  on  the  way,  and  leaving  behind  it  a  long 
streak  of  black. 

Rolling  from  side  to  side  like  a  drunken  man,  the 
aeroplane  was  coming  towards  its  next  quarry.  Lewis 
guns,  machine-guns,  Archies  were  now  all  firing  full 
blast,  but  the  pilot  continued  on  his  course.  Tracer 
bullets  shot  up  like  lines,  of  light,  but  so  far  he  had 
come  through  untouched.  *  From  the  balloons  the  ob- 
servers dived  out  until  at  one  moment  there  were  ten 
in  the  air.  And  each  balloon  in  turn  followed  its 
owners,  a  flaming,  smoking  remnant  .  .  . 

Then  came  the  end — as  suddenly  as  it  had  begun. 
A  tracer  bullet  seemed  to  pass  right  through  the  aero- 


14  MUFTI 

plane.  Like  a  tiny  ball  of  fire  the  bullet  struck  it,  and 
then  went  out.  The  plane  swerved  violently,  righted 
and  swerved  again.  Then  it  spun  down,  rocking  from 
side  to  side,  while  a  burst  of  white  flame  roared  all 
round  it.  And,  falling  a  little  faster  than  the  plane, 
two  black  spots,  which  did  not  steady  after  a  hundred 
feet.  They  crashed  fifty  yards  from  the  tin  hut,  and 
almost  before  they  reached  the  ground  the  officers 
were  on  the  spot.  A  little  distance  away  the  aero- 
plane was  blazing,  and  they  could  feel  the  heat  as  they 
bent  over  the  pilot  and  his  observer.  They  were  both 
dead,  and  the  pilot  was  unrecognisable ;  a  bullet  had 
entered  the  base  of  his  skull  from  behind.  But  the 
observer  was  not  much  damaged  outwardly.  He  lay 
— arms  outstretched — looking  up  at  the  sky,  on  the 
ground  that  the  farmer  had  just  ploughed.  He  seemed 
to  smile  cynically  at  the  hoarse  cheering  now  spread- 
ing from  field  to  field,  from  camp  to  camp.  Perhaps 
even  then  he  had  realised  the  futility  of  it  all  .  .  . 

For  a  few  seconds  Derek  Vane  looked  at  him 
gravely,  while  close  by  two  excited  men  from  different 
units  argued  raucously  as  to  which  battalion  had 
brought  the  aeroplane  down. 

"I  tell  yer  I  saw  the  ruddy  bullet  hit  the  perisher 
right  in  the  middle,"  cried  one  claimant:  "It  were 
old  Ginger's  gun,  I  tell  yer.  'E's  a  fair  corker  is 
Ginger  with  a  Lewis." 

The  smile  spread  till  it  was  almost  a  grin  on  the  dead 
man's  face.  Muscular  contraction,  of  course,  but  .  .  . 
With  a  sudden  movement  Vane  stooped  down  and 
covered  the  face. 

"Sergeant-Major."  He  turned  to  the  N.  C.  O.  be- 
side him.  "Armed  guard  round  the  plane  at  once  till 


MUFTI  15 

the  Flying  Corps  arrive.    Bring  these  two  bodies  into 
the  camp  on  stretchers." 

Five  minutes  later  they  sat  down  to  tea  and  an 
unopened  mail.  The  farmer  had  resumed  his  plough- 
ing— the  football  enthusiasts  their  game.  Twenty- 
five  Lewis  guns  and  twelve  Vickers  sections  were  all 
composing  reports  stating  that  their  particular  weapon 
had  done  the  deed,  and  somebody  was  putting  an- 
other fog  cloud  on  Kemmel. 

In  fact,  the  only  real  difference  in  the  scene  after 
those  ten  short  minutes  was  that  by  the  ruins  of  a 
deck  chair  two  German  airmen  with  their  faces 
covered  lay  very  still  on  stretchers.  .  .  . 


II 


Two  hours  later.  Vane  handed  his  steel  helmet  to 
his  batman  and  swung  himself  into  the  saddle  on  his 
old  grey  mare.  There  was  touch  of  Arab  in  her,  and 
she  had  most  enormous  feet.  But  she  fulfilled  most 
of  the  requirements  a  man  looks  for  in  a  war  horse, 
which  are  not  of  necessity  those  he  requires  in  a 
mount  with  the  Grafton.  She  scorned  guns — she 
repudiated  lorries,  and  he  could  lay  the  reins  on 
her  neck  without  her  ceasing  to  function.  She  fre- 
•  quently  fell  down  when  he  did  so ;  but — c'est  la  guerre. 
The  shadows  were  beginning  to  lengthen  as  he  hacked 
out  of  the  camp,  waving  a  farewell  hand  at  a  badmin- 
ton four,  and  headed  for  Poperinghe. 

Poperinghe  lay  about  a  mile  up  the  road  towards 
his  destination,  and  Vane  had  known  it  at  intervals 


16  MUFTI 

for  over  three  years.  He  remembered  it  when  it  had 
been  shelled  in  April  '15  at  the  time  of  the  first  gas 
attack,  and  the  inhabitants  had  fled  in  all  directions. 
Then  gradually  it  had  become  normal  again,  until,  after 
the  Passchendaele  fighting  of  1917,  it  had  excelled  it- 
self in  gaiety.  And  now  in  May  1918  it  was  dead  once 
more,  with  every  house  boarded  up  and  every  window 
shuttered.  The  big  cobbled  square;  the  brooding, 
silent  churches,  the  single  military  policeman  standing 
near  his  sand-bagged  sentry-box — and  in  the  distance 
the  rumble  of  a  wagon  going  past  the  station — such 
was  Poperinghe  as  Vane  saw  it  that  evening. 

A  city  of  ghosts — deserted  and  empty,  and  as  the 
old  grey  mare  walked  sedately  through  the  square, 
Vane  felt  that  he  understood  the  dead  airman's  smile. 

Sometimes  a  random  shot  would  take  effect,  but  the 
bag  was  soon  removed.  That  very  afternoon  a  driver 
with  his  two  horses  had  been  hit  direct.  The  man,  or 
what  was  left  of  him,  had  been  removed — only  the 
horses  remained,  and  a  red  pool  coated  with  grey 
dust.  The  mare  edged  warily  around  them,  and  a 
swarm  of  flies,  bloated,  loathsome  brutes — buzzed  ang- 
rily up  as  she  passed. 

"It's  not  fair,  old  girl,"  said  Vane  bending  over  and 
patting  her  neck;  "but  I  s'pose  it's  only  in  keeping 
with  everything  else  these  days — it's  not  fairness  that 
counts;  it's  just  luck — fatuous  idiotic  luck.  It's  not 
even  a  game ;  it's  a  wild-cat  gamble  all  over  the  world. 
And  may  Heaven  help  us  all  when  the  bottom  does 
drop  out  of  the  market/' 

The  grey  mare  ambled  placidly  on  up  the  main 
Ypres  road  undisturbed  by  his  philosophy.  The  dead 
of  her  kind  were  already  forgotten,  and  the  nose-bag 


MUFTI  17 

on  the  saddle  would  be  all  the  better  for  emptying. 
On  each  side  of  the  road  were  gun  positions,  and  Vane 
kept  a  sharp  look  out  as  he  trotted  on.  If  there  was 
one  thing  he  loathed  above  all  others  it  was  the  gunner 
humorist  who,  with  malice  aforethought,  deliberately 
waited  to  fire  his  gun  until  some  helpless  passer  by  was 
about  a  yard  from  the  muzzle.  But  at  the  moment 
everything  seemed  quiet.  The  evening  hate  was  not 
due  yet;  and  Vane  reached  Brandhoek  cross  roads 
without  having  his  eardrums  burst. 

On  the  Decauville  track  close  by  stood  eight  trains, 
stacked  with  rows  and  rows  of  cylinders,  and  he  con- 
templated them  grimly.  Each  train  was  drawn  by  an 
ugly-looking  petrol  electric  engine.  The  whole  eight 
would  shortly  run  at  close  intervals  to  the  nearest 
point  to  the  front  line.  Then  Vane,  with  a  large  push- 
ing party,  could  man-handle  the  trains  into  the  posi- 
tion decided  on — a  few  hundred  yards  behind  the 
outpost  line.  And  as  a  method  of  fighting  it  struck 
him  as  poor. 

Whatever  may  be  said  about  Might  and  Right, 
there  is  an  element  which  must  appeal  to  every  normal 
being  in  the  triumph  of  strength  and  hardihood  over 
weakness.  It  may  be  wrong;  it  happens,  however,  to 
be  natural.  But  there  is  nothing  whatever  to  appeal 
to  the  average  man  in  the  ability  of  some  professor 
of  science,  working  in  his  laboratory  miles  away,  to 
produce  a  weapon  which  strikes  down  alike  the  strong 
and  the  weakling  with  an  agony  which  makes  death 
a  blessed  relief.  Gas — just  a  refinement  of  modern 
war  introduced  by  the  brains  of  many  eminent  gentle- 
men. And  it  must  be  in  the  nature  of  a  personal  tri- 
umph for  them  to  realise  that  their  exhaustive  ex- 


i8  MUFTI 

periments  with  guinea  pigs  and  rabbits  have  caused 
thousands  to  fear  at  first  they  were  going  to  die,  and 
later  to  fear  still  more  that  they  were  not.  .  .  . 

Vane  nodded  to  the  gas  officer  and  got  on  board  the 
little  tractor  which  was  to  take  him  to  the  front 
trenches. 

Chugging  along  through  screen  after  screen  of 
brown  camouflage  which  hid  the  little  railway  line 
from  the  watchful  gaze  of  Kemmel,  he  seemed  to  be 
passing  through  some  mysterious  land.  By  day  it  was 
hideous  enough;  but  in  the  dusk  the  flat  dullness  of 
it  was  transfigured.  Each  pond  with  the  shadows 
lying  back  on  its  unruffled  surface  seemed  a  fairy 
lake;  each  gaunt  and  stunted  tree  seemed  to  clothe 
itself  again  with  rustling  leaves.  The  night  was  silent; 
only  the  rattle  of  the  little  train,  as  it  rumbled  over 
bridges  which  spanned  some  sluggish  brook  or  with 
a  warning  hoot  crossed  a  road — broke  the  stillness. 
Great  shell-holes  filled  with  rotting  debris  flashed  by, 
the  mouldering  ruins  of  an  old  chateau  frowned  down 
as  they  twisted  and  turned  through  the  grounds  where 
once  men  had  flirted  and  women  had  sighed.  Now 
the  rose  garden  was  used  as  a  rubbish  heap  for  tins; 
and  by  the  overgrown  sundial,  chipped  and  scarred  by 
a  stray  shell,  two  wooden  crosses  stuck  out  of  the 
long  rank  grass.  At  last  they  reached  the  Canal, 
and  the  engine  stopped  near  the  Lille  road. 

Close  by,  the  flares  lobbed  up,  green  against  the 
night ;  and  a  white  mist  covered  the  low-lying  ground. 
Across  the  road  lay  trees  in  all  directions,  while, 
through  the  few  that  remained  standing,  a  cold  bright 
moon  threw  fantastic  shadows.  On  each  side  of  the 


MUFTI  ^  19 

road,  screened  by  the  embankment  from  machine-gun 
fire,  sat  groups  of  men  waiting  for  the  trains. 

At  last  Vane  heard  the  first  one — faintly  in  the 
distance.  It  loomed  up  suddenly  out  of  the  mist  and 
crept  across  the  road.  Without  a  word  the  men 
detailed  to  push  it  seemed  to  rise  out  of  the  ground. 
Silently  they  disappeared  with  it,  like  ghouls  at  some 
mysterious  ceremony.  With  muffled  couplings  it  made 
no  sound ;  and  in  a  few  minutes  it  was  ready  in  posi- 
tion, with  its  leading  truck  where  once  the  owner 
of  a  farm  had  sat  before  the  fire,  after  the  day's  work. 

And  so  they  came — eight  in  all.  Any  noise — any 
suspicion  on  the  part  of  the  Boche,  a  bare  quarter  of 
a  mile  away,  and  a  machine-gun  would  have  swept 
the  ground.  But  the  night  was  silent,  the  flares  still 
went  peacefully  up,  and  the  wind  had  not  changed. 
It  blew  gently  and  steadily  towards  the  German  lines. 
Only  there  was  now  just  a  faint  smell  of  pineapple 
in  the  air;  one  of  the  cylinders  was  leaking.  .  .  . 

Figures  loomed  up  unexpectedly  out  of  the  mist; 
occasionally  a  low  curse  could  be  heard  as  a  man 
stumbled  into  a  shell  hole.  .  .  . 

"Everything  all  right;  everybody  clear?"  The  gas 
expert  peered  at  Vane  in  the  darkness.  "Right!  well, 
let  her  go." 

A  series  of  reports  sounded  deafeningly  loud,  as  the 
detonators  of  the  cylinders  were  fired  by  electricity; 
a  steady,  hissing  noise  as  a  great  wall  of  white  vapour 
mingled  with  the  mist  and  rolled  forward  towards 
the  Germans.  The  gas  attack  had  begun.  To  an 
airman  returning  from  a  bombing  raid,  who  circled 
for  a  moment  above,  it  looked  like  a  sheet  being  slowly 
spread  over  the  country  below ;  a  beautiful — an  eerie — 


20  MUFTI 

picture.  To  those  on  the  ground  who  watched  it,  it 
seemed  as  a  solid  wall  of  dense  fog  moving  relent- 
lessly forward — like  the  mist  that  comes  creeping  over 
the  Downs  till  those  caught  in  it  can  scarce  see  their 
hand  in  front  of  their  face.  To  the  Boche  it  was 
death.  .  .  . 

Patrols  going  out  the  next  night  found  men  twisted 
and  blackened  with  the  smell  of  pineapple  still  on  theft 
swollen  lips ;  in  the  hospitals  behind,  men  writhed  and 
muttered  hoarsely,  struggling  for  breath  and  strug- 
gling in  vain.  The  attack  had  been  successful — and  all 
was  as  it  should  be.  Undoubtedly  the  Germans  started 
gas  in  a  country  where  the  prevalent  wind  was  south- 
west— and  it  doesn't  pay  in  war  to  be  a  fool.  .  .  . 

Vane  wished  that  one  or  two  Germen  men  of  science 
had  been  occupying  the  Boche  outpost  line  instead  of 
.  .  .  War — modern  war ! 

"It  will  go  clean  through  their  helmets,"  said  the  gas 
expert.  "One  hour  in  most  cases,  and  when  it  gets 
weaker,  twenty- four — or  even  more.  That's  the  stuff 
to  give  Jem." 

At  last  the  performance  was  over,  and  the  trains 
having  delivered  the  goods  returned  to  their  own  place. 

"Most  successful."  The  gas  expert,  rubbing  his 
hands  together,  came  up  to  Vane  as  he  stood  on  the 
Lille  road.  "I  think  we've  got  quite  a  number  of  the 
blighters.  And  not  a  single  casualty!" 

"Good,"  said  Vane.  "But  what  a  filthy  method  of 
fighting." 

"The  Germans  started  it,"  returned  the  other. 

"I  know  they  did,"  laughed  Vane.  "That's  prob- 
ably why  it's  so  filthy." 

The  gas  officer  looked  thoughtful.    "I'm  not  certain 


MUFTI  21 

that  I  agree  with  you,  Vane.  War  is  such  a  filthy 
business,  however  you  look  at  it,  that  one  would  be  a 
fool  not  to  harness  science  in  every  possible  way.  ..." 

"Don't  you  believe  it,"  scoffed  Vane.  "Science  has 
harnessed  us.  We've  started  the  bally  motor  with  the 
gear  in,  and  now  we're  running  after  it  trying  to  catch 
up.  Can  I  give  you  a  lift  back  on  my  private  stink 
machine?  ..." 

They  strolled  up  the  road  together  to  where  the  trac- 
tor was  waiting. 

"Man  no  longer  the  master  of  his  destiny,  you 
mean?"  said  his  companion. 

"Don't  make  me  laugh  too  loud,"  returned  Vane, 
"or  the  Boche  might  hear;  unless  you've  killed  'em 
all.  ..." 

"You're  wrong,  my  friend — utterly  wrong."  They 
came  to  where  the  railway  track  crossed  the  road  and 
he  halted  to  pull  out  his  pipe,  before  getting  on  to  the 
little  engine. 

"I  tell  you,  Vane  .  .  . 

And  at  that  moment  a  flight  of  cockchafers  seemed 
to  sweep  down  the  road.  Vane  felt  the  stinging  pain 
in  his  right  shoulder,  and  then  he  looked  foolishly  at 
the  gas  expert.  .  .  . 

"You  were  saying,"  he  began  .  .  . 

But  his  late  companion  had  taken  a  machine-gun 
bullet  through  his  heart. 


, 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  beach  at  the  Paris  Plage  is  associated  in  the 
minds  of  most  people  who  went  there  before  the 
war  with  a  certain  amount  of  gaiety.  There  were 
bands,  and  fair  ladies,  and  various  other  delights  gen- 
erally connected  with  popular  French  watering-places. 
Incidentally  the  beach  is  a  beach — not  a  collection  of 
sharp  boulders.  There  is  real  sand — lots  of  it;  the 
sort  that  gets  hot  and  comforting  in  the  sun,  and  invites 
people  who  have  eaten  too  much  luncheon  to  sleep. 
And  during  the  war,  though  the  bands  and  other  de- 
lights have  departed,  the  sand  has  remained  a  source  of 
pleasure  to  hundreds  of  people  in  need  of  a  temporary 
rest  cure.  They  have  come  from  the  big  hospitals  at 
Etaples ;  they  have  come  from  the  officers'  rest-house. 
Some  have  even  come  in  motor  cars  from  the  trenches 
just  for  the  day,  and  one  and  all  they  have  lain  on  the 
beach  and  slept  and  then  departed  the  better  for  it. 

On  a  certain  afternoon  during  the  height  of  the  Ger- 
man offensive  in  the  spring  of  1918  a  girl  was  sitting 
on  the  beach  staring  out  to  sea.  On  the  horizon  a  black 
smudge  of  smoke  stood  up  against  the  vivid  blue  of 
the  sky;  while,  close  in  shore,  a  small  sailing  boat  was 
barely  making  headway  in  the  faint  breeze. 

The  girl  was  a  V.A.D.,  and  the  large  French  family 
which  had  planted  itself  close  by  cast  little  curious 
glances  at  her  from  time  to  time.  And  she  was  worth 

23 


24  MUFTI 

looking  at,  with  her  fair  hair,  deep  blue  eyes  and  that 
wonderful  complexion  which  seems  to  be  the  exclusive 
property  of  the  British.  Madame  remarked  on  it  to 
Monsieur,  glancing  at  the  white  faces  of  her  own 
daughters  three,  and  Monsieur  grunted  an  assent.  Per- 
sonally he  was  more  occupied  with  the  departed  glories 
of  Paris  Plage  than  with  a  mere  skin  of  roses  and  milk  ; 
at  least  the  worthy  man  may  have  deemed  it  desirable 
to  appear  so. 

"Pauvre  petite,"  went  on  the  kindly  matron,  "but 
she  looks  tired  ...  so  tired."  She  heaved  a  deep 
sigh.  "Mais  que  voulez-vous?  c'est  la  guerre."  She 
watched  her  offspring  preparing  to  paddle,  and  once 
again  she  sighed.  There  was  no  band,  no  amusement 
— "Mon  Dieu !  but  it  was  triste.  This  accursed  war — 
would  it  never  end  ?" 

Margaret  Trent's  looks  did  not  lie;  she  was  tired. 
The  rush  of  work  just  lately  had  almost  broken  her 
physical  endurance,  and  there  seemed  but  little  chance 
of  any  slackening  in  the  near  future.  She  felt  that  all 
she  wanted  was  rest — utter,  complete  rest,  where  such 
things  as  bandages  and  iodine  were  unknown.  And 
even  as  the  longing  came  to  her  she  knew  that  a  week 
of  it  would  be  all  that  she  could  stand.  She  could  see 
beyond  the  craving  ache  to  stop — the  well-nigh  irre- 
sistible cry  of  her  body  for  rest.  She  could  feel  the 
call  of  spirit  dominating  mere  bodily  weariness.  And 
it  drove  her  on — though  every  muscle  cried  a  halt. 

Before  the  war  she  had  been  in  that  set  which  drifted 
pleasantly  through  life,  and  yet  she  had  not  been  of  it. 
She  danced  perfectly;  she  played  tennis  and  golf  and 
went  to  the  proper  places  at  the  proper  times — but  she 
was  different.  She  had  in  her  a  certain  idealistic 


MUFTI  25 

dreaminess,  an  intense  love  of  the  beautiful  in  life. 
Sordid  things  filled  her  with  a  kind  of  horror,  and 
when  the  war  came  she  tried  to  banish  it  from  her 
mind  like  a  dreadful  nightmare.  But  there  were  sto- 
ries in  the  papers,  and  there  were  letters  from  friends 
telling  of  losses  and  unspeakable  sufferings.  There 
was  war  all  round  her  and  one  day  the  great  unrest  got 
hold  of  her,  and  would  not  be  put  aside.  She  felt  she 
had  to  do  something  ... 

And  so  she  became  a  V.A.D.  and  in  the  fulness  of 
time  arrived  in  France.  Her  friends  prophesied  that 
she  would  last  a  month — that  she  would  never  stand 
the  sight  of  blood  and  wounds.  Her  answer  had  been 
two  years  at  Etaples.  And  to  those  who  know,  that 
is  an  answer  conducive  of  many  things. 

At  times  she  tried  to  recall  her  outlook  on  life  four 
years  ago.  She  had  enjoyed  herself  up  to  a  point,  but 
all  the  time  she  had  been  groping  towards  something 
she  did  not  possess.  She  had  read  carefully  and  with 
discrimination,  and  the  reading  had  only  filled  her  with 
an  added  sense  of  her  own  futility.  She  felt  that  she 
wanted  to  do  something — but  what  was  there  for  her 
to  do? 

Marriage,  naturally,  had  come  into  her  mental  hori- 
zon. But  there  had  only  been  one  man  who  had  ever 
attracted  her  sufficiently  to  make  it  anything  but  an 
idle  speculation.  There  had  been  a  time,  one  season  in 
London,  when  this  man  had  been  her  constant  compan- 
ion, and  she  had  been  far  from  disliking  it.  At  times 
he  had  seemed  to  be  serious,  and  as  a  matter  of  fact 
the  subtle  difference  between  her  and  the  stock  pattern 
crowd  had  interested  him  more  than  he  admitted  even 
to  himself.  Then  one  day  she  discovered  that  a  cer- 


26  MUFTI 

tain  flat  and  its  occupant  were  very  closely  connected 
with  his  bank  account.  It  was  by  pure  accident  that 
she  found  it  out.  A.  chance  remark  which  she  over- 
heard at  a  dinner  party.  .  .  .  And  the  night  before  at 
the  Grafton  Galleries  she  had  allowed  him  to  kiss  her 
as  she  had  never  before  allowed  a  man  .  .  . 

It  revolted  her;  and  the  man,  astonished  at  first  at 
her  sudden  change  of  manner,  finally  became  annoyed, 
and  the  episode  ceased.  They  still  met ;  there  was  no 
quarrel — but  they  met  only  as  casual  acquaintances. 

It  was  at  that  stage  of  her  reflections  that  a  shadow 
fell  across  her  and  she  looked  up.  For  a  moment  the 
coincidence  failed  to  strike  her,  and  then  with  a  sur- 
prised little  laugh  she  held  out  her  hand. 

"Why,  Derek,"  she  said>  "I  was  just  thinking  of 
you." 

Vane,  his  right  arm  tightly  bound  in  a  sling,  sat 
down  beside  her. 

"I  thought  you  looked  pretty  weary,"  he  laughed. 
"Jove !  but  it's  great  seeing  you  again,  Margaret  .  .  . ! 
And  the  peace  of  it  all."  He  waved  his  left  hand  round 
the  deserted  beach.  "Why,  it's  like  old  times — before 
the  world  went  mad"  .  .  .  He  fumbled  with  his  ciga- 
rette case,  until  she  took  it  out  of  his  hand,  and  struck 
a  match  for  him. 

"What  ward  are  you  in?"  she  asked,  when  he  had 
made  himself  comfortable. 

"Number  13 ;  got  here  yesterday." 

"I  come  on  night  duty  there  to-night.  What's  your 
trouble?" 

"Machine-gun,"  he  answered  briefly.  "A  nice  clean 
one  through  the  shoulder.  And  the  man  beside  me 
took  the  next  bullet  through  his  heart."  He  laughed 


MUFTI  27 

shortly.  "What  a  gamble — what  a  dam  silly  gamble, 
isn't  it?" 

She  looked  thoughtfully  out  to  sea.  The  train  of 
ideas  his  sudden  appearance  had  interrupted  was  still 
half  consciously  occupying  her  mind. 

"Four  years,  isn't  it,  since  we  met?"  she  said  after 
a  while. 

"Four  centuries,  you  mean.  Four  wasted  centuries. 
Nothing  will  ever  be  the  same  again." 

"Of  course  it  won't.  But  don't  you  think  it's  just 
as  well?"  She  faced  him  smilingly.  "There  was  so 
much  that  was  all  wrong,  Derek;  so  much  that  was 
rotten." 

"And  do  you  think  that  four  years'  insanity  is  going 
to  prove  the  remedy?"  Vane  laughed  cynically.  "Ex- 
cept that  there  are  a  few  million  less  men  to  carry  on 
the  rottenness" — 

Margaret  shook  her  head.  "We  wanted  something 
to  wake  us  up;  it's  been  drastic,  but  we're  awake." 

"And  what  most  of  us  want  is  to  go  to  sleep  again. 
Don't  you  feel  tired,  Margaret,  sometimes?" 

"Yes — I  suppose  I  do.  But  it's  the  tiredness  that 
comes  with  doing — not  drifting.  .  .  .  It's  we  who  have 
got  to  make  the  new  Heaven  and  the  new  Earth, 
Derek  ..." 

Again  Vane  laughed.  "Still  as  idealistic  as  ever,  I 
see.  Six  months  after  peace  we  shall  be  scrambling 
and  fighting  and  snarling  again — after  jobs  and  money 
and  work." 

Margaret  Trent  was  silent,  tracing  a  pattern  in  the 
sand  with  her  ringer.  "The  worry  of  scrambling  after 
a  job  is  not  likely  to  hit  you  very  hard,"  she  said  at 
length. 


sS  MUFTI 

"Which  is  perhaps  as  well,"  he  returned  lightly; 
"for  I'm  certainly  too  weary  to  take  the  trouble.  I 
shall  go  away,  if  I'm  alive  to  do  it,  to  the  South  Sea 
Islands  and  live  on  fruit.  The  only  proviso  is  that  it 
should  be  sufficiently  ripe  to  drop  into  my  mouth,  and 
save  me  the  trouble  of  picking  it." 

The  girl  turned  and  looked  at  him  suddenly. 
"You've  got  it  rather  bad,  old  boy,  haven't  you  ?" 

"Got  what?"  he  asked  slowly. 

"Mental  jaundice,"  she  answered.  "Your  world 
askew." 

"Do  you  wonder?"  he  returned  grimly.  "Isn't  the 
world  askew  ?" 

"And  if  it  is,  someone  has  got  to  put  it  back." 

"That's  what  the  little  boy  said  when  he  pulled  the 
chest  of  drawers  over  on  top  of  him  and  lay  struggling 
under  it.  But  he  couldn't  do  it  himself.  It's  got  be- 
yond us,  Margaret — and  God  seems  to  have  forgotten. 
There  is  just  a  blind,  malignant  Fate  running  the 
show." 

She  looked  at  him  gravely.  "You're  wrong,  Derek 
— utterly  wrong.  The  game  is  still  in  our  hands,  and 
we've  got  to  keep  it  there.  What  are  you  smiling  at  ?" 

"I  was  wondering,"  he  answered,  "whether  the  last 
time  I  was  told  I  was  wrong,  the  sentence  would  have 
been  concluded  similarly.  Unfortunately,  the  speaker 
died  in  the  middle,  thereby  proving  his  contention." 

"Oh !  but  you're  little,"  she  cried,  striking  her  hands 
together.  "Don't  you  see  that  you've  got  to  look  be- 
yond the  individual — that  you've  got  to  think  Big?" 

"We  leave  that  to  the  newspaper  men,"  he  retorted 
cynically.  "Our  smiling  heroes;  our  undaunted  sol- 
diers !  They  are  heroes,  those  Tommies ;  they  are  un- 


MUFTI  29 

• 

daunted,  but  it's  because  they  Ve  got  to  be.  They're  up 
against  it — and  the  Juggernaut  of  Fate  knows  he's  got 
'em.  And  they  know  he's  got  'em.  They  just  eat  and 
drink  and  are  merry  for  to-morrow  they  .  .  .  Ah! 
no ;  that's  wrong.  We  never  die  out  here,  Margaret ; 
only  the  other  fellow  does  that.  And  if  we  become  the 
other  fellow,  it's  so  deuced  unexpected  I  don't  suppose 
it  matters  much." 

"But  we've  got  to  go  through  with  it,  haven't  we?" 
she  said  quietly. 

"Of  course  we  have,"  he  answered  with  a  laugh; 
"and  the  knowledge  of  that  fact  cuts  about  as  much 
ice  with  the  men  in  the  mud  holes  up  there  as  brave 
little  Belgium  or  suffering  little  Serbia.  I  tell  you 
we're  all  dazed,  Margaret — just  living  in  a  dream. 
Some  of  us  take  it  worse  than  others,  that's  all.  You 
want  the  constitution  of  an  elephant  combined  with 
the  intelligence  of  a  cow  to  fight  these  days." 

"And  yet,"  she  said  with  a  grave  little  smile,  "un- 
derlying it  all,  there's  the  big  ideal  surely.  .  .  .  If  I 
didn't  think  that,  if  I  didn't  know  that,  I  ...  I 
couldn't  go  on." 

"To  which  particular  ideal  do  you  allude  ?"  he  asked 
cynically.  "The  League  of  Nations ;  or  the  triumph  of 
Democracy,  or  the  War  to  end  War.  They  all  sound 
so  topping,  don't  they?  received  with  howls  of  applause 
by  the  men  who  haven't  had  their  boots  off  for  a  week." 
He  thumped  the  sand  savagely.  "Cut  the  cackle,  my 
dear  girl ;  cut  the  cackle.  This  little  performance  was 
started  by  a  few  of  the  puppets  who  thought  they  had 
a  winning  hand,  and  the  other  puppets  called  a  show 
down.  And  then  the  game  passed  out  of  their  hands. 
They  write  books  about  it,  and  discover  new  Gods,  and 


30  MUFTI 

pass  new  Acts  of  Parliament — but  the  thing  takes  no 
notice.  It  just  goes  on — inexorably.  Man  has  been 
dabbling  with  stakes  that  are  too  big  for  him,  Mar- 
garet. And  the  trouble  is  that  the  cards  up  in  the 
trenches  are  getting  mighty  tattered." 

She  looked  at  him  curiously.  "I'd  never  have 
thought  it  would  have  taken  you  like  that,  Derek  .  .  .; 
Not  quite  as  badly." 

"You  formed  your  opinion  in  the  bad  old  days,  didn't 
you?"  he  said  lightly.  "When  we  danced  and  made 
love  at  the  Grafton  Galleries."  She  flushed  a  little, 
but  did  not  lower  her  eyes.  "Such  a  serious  girl  you 
were  too,  Margaret;  I  wonder  how  you  ever  put  up 
with  a  brainless  sort  of  ass  like  me." 

"Because  I  liked  you,"  she  answered  quietly,  and 
suddenly  it  struck  Vane,  almost  with  a  feeling  of  sur- 
jprise,  that  the  girl  sitting  beside  him  was  more  than 
(attractive.  He  wondered  why  he  had  let  her  slip  so 
| easily  out  of  his  life.  And  the  train  of  thought  once 
started  seemed  a  not  unpleasant  one.  .  .  .  "You'll  get 
it  back  soon,  Derek — your  sense  of  proportion.  You've 
got  to." 

"So  that  I  can  help  build  the  new  Heaven  and  the 
new  Earth,"  he  laughed. 

"So  that  you  may  help  build  the  new  Heaven  and 
the  new  Earth,"  she  repeated  gravely  rising  to  her 
feet.  "I  must  go  back  or  I'll  miss  my  tea." 

"Have  a  cup  with  me  in  the  village."  Vane  scram- 
bled up  and  fell  into  step  beside  her.  They  passed 
Monsieur  still  snoring,  and  Madame  nodding  peace- 
fully over  her  knitting,  and  crossed  the  deserted  prom- 
enade. Then  in  silence  they  walked  up  into  the  main 
street  of  the  little  town  in  search  of  a  tea  shop. 


MUFTI  31 

"Do  you  realise,  Margaret,"  he  remarked  as  they  sat 
down  at  a  small  marble-topped  table,  "that  I  haven't 
seen  or  spoken  to  a  woman  for  six  months?"  .  >  . 
"Heaven  help  us!  Aren't  there  any  cakes?" 

"Of  course  not,"  laughed  Margaret,  "nor  milk,  nor 
sugar.  There's  a  war  on  up  the  road.  You  want  about 
ten  drops  of  that  liquid  saccharine."  In  the  sunny 
street  outside,  soldiers  in  various  stages  of  convales- 
cence, strolled  aimlessly  about.  An  occasional  motor 
car,  containing  officers — on  duty,  of  course — slowed 
down  at  the  corner  opposite  and  disgorged  its  load.  A 
closer  inspection  of  one  of  them  might  have  revealed  a 
few  suspicious  looking  gashes  in  the  upholstery  and 
holes  in  the  mud-guards.  Of  course — shrapnel — but, 
then  shrapnel  did  not  occur  by  the  sea.  And  on  what 
duty  could  officers  from  the  shrapnel  area  be  engaged 
on  at  Paris  Plage?  .  .  .  However,  let  us  be  discreet 
in  all  things. 

In  a  few  hours  that  shrapnel  scarred  car  would  be 
carrying  its  freight  back  to  Boulogne,  where  a  table  at 
the  restaurant  Mony  had  already  been  secured  for 
dinner.  Then  back  through  the  night,  to  call  at  various 
dilapidated  farms  and  holes  in  the  ground,  in  the  area 
where  shrapnel  and  crumps  are  not  unknown.  .  .  .. 
But  just  for  a  few  brief  hours  the  occupants  of  the  car 
were  going  to  soak  themselves  in  the  Waters  of  For- 
getfulness;  they  were  going  to  live — even  as  the  trip- 
per from  the  slums  lives  his  little  span  at  Margate. 
And  they  were  no  whit  less  excited  at  the  thought  .  .  . 

They  did  not  show  it  by  an  excessive  consumption 
of  indigestible  fruit,  or  by  bursting  into  unmelodious 
song.  True,  the  greatest  of  all  the  "Q"  men,  who  had 
come  officially  from  a  Nissen  hut  near  Poperinghe  to 


32  MUFTI 

study  the  question  of  salvaged  materials  at  the  base, 
had  waved  a  friendly  hand  at  all  the  ladies — beautiful 
and  otherwise — whom  they  met.  But  then  save  for 
salvage  he  was  much  as  other  men.  And  with  that 
exception  they  had  just  laid  back  in  the  car  and 
thought;  while  the  trees  that  were  green  rushed  past 
them,  and  war  was  not. 

Thus  had  they  come  to  the  sea.  To-morrow  once 
more  the  flat,  dusty  country  with  the  heat  haze  shim- 
mering over  it  and  every  now  and  then  the  dull  drone 
of  some  bursting  crump,  or  the  vicious  crack  of  high 
explosive.  Behind,  the  same  old  row  of  balloons;  in 
front,  the  same  old  holes  in  the  ground.  .  .  .  But 
to-day — peace.  .  .  . 

Vane  thoughtfully  stirred  the  pale  straw-coloured 
concoction  reputed  to  be  tea  on  the  table  in  front  of 
him.  The  remark  Margaret  had  made  to  him  on  the 
beach  was  running  through  his  mind — "The  new 
Heaven  and  the  new  Earth."  Yes,  but  on  what  foun- 
dations ?  And  would  they  be  allowed  to  anyway  ?  Re- 
construction is  work  for  the  politician — not  for  the 
soldier.  .  .  .  Most  certainly  not.  .  .  .  The  soldier's 
ignorance  on  every  subject  in  the  world  except  fighting 
is  complete.  And  even  over  that  he's  not  all  he  might 
be :  he  requires  quite  a  lot  of  help  from  lawyers,  doc- 
tors and  successful  grocers.  .  .  .In  fact,  the  only 
thing  he  is  allowed  to  do  quite  on  his  own  is  to  die  ... 

Vane  smiled  a  little  bitterly,  and  Margaret  leaned 
across  the  table  towards  him.  "You'll  get  it  back  soon, 
Derek — believe  me,  old  boy." 

"That's  very  possible.  But  will  the  people  at  home? 
I'm  jangled,  Margaret,  I  know  it — just  for  the  time. 


MUFTI  33 

...  However,  don't  let's  talk  about  me.  Tell  me 
about  yourself.  .  .  ." 

The  girl  shrugged  her  shoulders  slightly.  "I  don't 
know  thaf  there's  much  to  tell.  I've  never  been  so 
happy  in  my  life  as  I  am  at  present  ..." 

"In  spite  of  all  that?"  He  pointed  out  of  the  win- 
dow to  two  soldiers  limping  painfully  by  on  sticks. 

"Yes — in  spite  of  all  that.  One  gets  accustomed 
to  that — and  one's  doing  something.  After  all,  Derek, 
you  get  accustomed  to  death  and  mutilation  up  there 
in  front.  It  doesn't  affect  you.  .  .  ." 

"No,  not  to  the  same  extent  as  it  did.  In  a  way,  I 
suppose  not  at  all.  But  you — you  were  so  different." 
He  thoughtfully  drained  his  tea  cup,  and  set  it  down 
again,  and  for  a  space  neither  of  them  spoke. 

"I  can't  help  laughing  at  the  comparison,"  said  Mar- 
garet suddenly.  "Five  years  ago  you  and  I  were  sit- 
ting in  Rumpelmayer's,  surrounded  by  sugar  cakes, 
being  smart." 

"They're  doing  that  now  in  London  except  for  the 
sugar  cakes." 

"We  shouldn't  have  been  silent  for  a  moment,  and 
we  should  have  enjoyed  ourselves  thoroughly  ...  I 
wonder — " 

"It  was  our  only  standard,  wasn't  it?" 

"And  now  we  can  sit  over  a  cup  of  weak  and  nasty 
tea — without  milk  and  not  talk  for  effect.  .  .  .  What's 
going  to  happen,  Derek,  to  you  and  me  afterwards? 
We  can  never  go  back  to  it?" 

"No— you  can't  put  back  the  clock — and  we've 
grown,  Margaret,  years  and  years  older.  So  have 
thousands  of  others — the  boys  up  yonder,  their  people 
at  home.  But  what  about  the  business  train  to  Bright- 


34  MUFTI 

on,  and  the  occupants  thereof?  .  .  .  Have  they  felt 
this  war,  except  to  make  a  bit  more  boodle  out  of  it?" 

"They're  only  a  small  minority." 

"Are  they?  They're  a  damned  powerful  one."  He 
laughed  a  little  bitterly.  "And  they're  artificial — just 
like  we  were  before  the  war." 

"That's  why  it's  we  who  have  got  to  do  the  rebuild- 
ing. Even  if  it's  only  the  rebuilding  the  house  in  our 
own  little  tiny  circle,  with  simplicity  and  reality  as  the 
keystones.  .  .  .  You  see,  if  you  get  enough  tiny  circles 
sound  and  good,  in  time  the  others  may  follow.  ..." 

"Dear  lady,  you've  become  very  optimistic."  Vane's 
eyes  smiled  at  her.  "Let's  hope  you're  right."  He 
paused  and  looked  at  her  quietly.  "Margaret.  I've 
never  asked  you  before — but  you're  different  now — 
so  different.  Incidentally  so  am  I.  What  was  it,  that 
made  you  alter  so  suddenly  ?" 

Margaret  rose  to  her  feet,  and  shook  her  head.  "I'll 
tell  you  some  day,  Derek,  perhaps.  Not  just  now.  I 
must  be  getting  back  to  the  hospital." 

"Will  you  come  out  and  have  tea  with  me  to-mor- 
row?" For  a  few  moments  she  looked  at  him  as  if 
undecided,  and  then  suddenly  she  seemed  to  make  up 
her  mind. 

"All  right,"  she  said  with  a  smile.  "I'll  come,  I 
want  to  deal  with  this  jaundice  of  yours.  One  must 
live  up  to  a  professional  reputation." 


CHAPTER  II 

A  HOSPITAL  is  much  the  same  anywhere,  and 
number  1 3  General  at  Etaples  was  no  exception. 
On  each  side  of  the  big  marquee  ran  a  row  of  beds  in 
perfect  dressing.  The  sheets  were  turned  down  on  the 
design  so  ably  portrayed  in  the  War  Office  Sealed  Pat- 
tern X.B.45I. — "Method  of  turning  down  sheets  on 
Beds  Hospital."  On  "Beds  Barrack"  the  method  is 
slightly  different  and  is  just  as  ably  shown  on  Sealed 
pattern  X. 6.452.  During  moments  of  intense  depres- 
sion one  is  apt  to  fear  the  war-winning  properties  of 
X.B.45 l  and  452  have  not  been  sufficiently  appreciated 
by  an  unintelligent  public. 

The  period  of  strain  incurred  on  entrance  was  over 
as  far  as  Vane  was  concerned.  For  the  sixth  time  since 
leaving  his  battalion  he  had,  in  a  confidential  aside, 
informed  a  minion  of  the  R. A.M.C.  that  he  was  a  Wee 
Free  Presbyterian  Congregationalist ;  and  for  the  sixth 
time  the  worthy  recipient  of  this  news  had  retired  to 
consult  War  Office  Sealed  List  of  Religions  A.F.3I  to 
find  out  if  he  was  entitled  to  be  anything  of  the  sort. 
In  each  case  .the  answer  had  been  in  the  negative,  and 
Vane  had  been  entered  as  "Other  Denominations"  and 
regarded  with  suspicion.  One  stout  sergeant  had  even 
gone  so  far  as  to  attempt  to  convert  him  to  Unitarian- 
ism;  another  showed  him  the  list,  and  asked  him  to 
take  his  choice. 

35 


36  MUFTI 

In  the  bed  next  to  him  was  a  young  Gunner  sub- 
altern, with  most  of  his  right  leg  shot  away,  and  they 
talked  spasmodically,  in  the  intervals  of  trying  to  read 
month  old  magazines. 

"Wonderful  sight,"  remarked  the  Gunner,  inter- 
rupted for  a  moment  in  his  story  by  the  eternal  ther- 
mometer. "Firing  at  'em  over  open  sights:  shrapnel 
set  at  o.  Seemed  to  cut  lanes  through  'em;  though, 
God  be  praised,  they  came  on  for  a  bit,  and  didn't  spoil 
our  shooting." 

Vane,  sucking  a  thermometer  under  his  tongue,  nod- 
ded sympathetically. 

"A  bit  better  than  sitting  in  a  bally  O.P.  watchin' 
other  fellows  poop  at  the  mud." 

"How  did  you  get  yours?"  he  queried,  as  the  Sister 
passed  on. 

"Crump  almost  at  my  feet,  just  as  I  was  going  into 
my  dug-out.  .  .  .  Mouldy  luck,  and  one  splinter 
smashed  the  last  bottle  of  whisky."  The  gunner  re- 
lapsed into  moody  silence  at  the  remembrance  of  the 
tragedy. 

Two  beds  further  along  the  Padre  was  playing  a 
game  of  chess  with  a  Major  in  the  Devons ;  and  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  tent  another  chaplain,  grey  haired 
and  clean  shaven,  was  talking  and  laughing  with  a  boy, 
whose  face  and  head  were  swathed  in  bandages. 

The  R.C.  and  the  C.  of  E.  exponents  hunting  in 
couples  as  these  two  always  did.  .  .  .  They  are  not  the 
only  two  who  before  the  war  would  have  relegated  the 
other  to  the  nethermost  depths  of  the  deepest  Hell ;  but 
whose  eyes  have  been  opened  to  wisdom  now. 

Vane  was  no  theologian — no  more  than  are  the  thou- 
sands of  others  across  the  water.  Before  the  war  he 


MUFTI  37 

had  been  in  the  habit  of  dismissing  any  religious  ques- 
tion by  the  comforting  assertion  that  if  all  one's  pals 
are  in  Hell,  one  might  as  well  join  them.  But  in  the 
Game  of  Death  the  thoughts  of  many  men  have  probed 
things  they  passed  over  lightly  before.  It  is  not  doc- 
trine they  want;  faith  and  belief  in  beautiful  formulae 
have  become  less  and  less  satisfying.  They  are  begin- 
ning to  think  for  themselves,  which  is  anathema  to  the 
Church.  Of  old  she  prevented  such  a  calamity  by  a 
policy  of  terrorising  her  followers;  of  later  years  she 
has  adopted  the  simpler  one  of  boring  them.  And 
yet  it  is  only  simplicity  they  want;  the  simple  creeds 
of  helping  on  the  other  fellow  and  playing  the  game 
is  what  they  understand.  But  they  will  have  to  be 
reminded  of  it  from  time  to  time.  One  wonders 
whether  the  Church  will  be  big  enough  to  seize  the 
opportunity  that  stares  her  in  the  face. 

Vane  nodded  to  the  grey-haired  Roman  Catholic  as 
he  paused  at  the  foot  of  his  bed. 

"Shoulder  painful?"  The  priest  held  out  a  lighted 
match  for  Vane's  cigarette. 

"Throbs  a  bit,  Padre;  but  it  might  be  worse."  He 
smiled  and  lay  back  on  his  pillows.  "An  arm  makes 
one  feel  so  helpless." 

"I  think  I'd  sooner  lose  an  arm  than  a  leg,"  re- 
marked the  Gunner  from  the  next  bed.  For  a  while 
they  pursued  this  debatable  point,  much  as  men  dis- 
cuss politics,  and  incidentally  with  far  less  heat.  .  .  . 
It  was  a  question  of  interest,  and  the  fact  that  the 
Gunner  had  lost  his  leg  made  no  difference  to  the  mat- 
ter at  all.  An  onlooker  would  have  listened  in  vain  for 
any  note  of  complaint.  .  .  . 

"Time  you  were  getting  to  sleep — both  of  you." 


38  MUFTI 

Margaret's  voice  interrupted  the  conversation,  and 
Vane  looked  up  with  a  smile.  She  was  shaking  an 
admonitory  finger  at  Father  O'Rourke,  and  with  a 
sudden  quickening  of  the  pulse  he  realised  how  per- 
fectly charming  she  looked. 

"Sister,  dear,"  said  the  Gunner,  "you're  on  my  side, 
aren't  you  ?  It's  better  to  lose  an  arm  than  a  leg,  isn't 
it?" 

For  a  moment  she  affected  to  consider  the  point. 
Then  suddenly  she  smiled,  and  came  between  their 
beds.  "Unless  you  both  of  you  go  to  sleep  at  once 
I'll  come  and  wash  you  again." 

With  a  groan  of  horror  the  Gunner  hid  himself  un- 
der the  bed-clothes,  and  Margaret,  still  smiling,  turned 
to  Vane. 

"Good  night,  Derek,"  she  said  very  low.  "Some- 
times I  just  want  to  sit  down  and  howl.  .  .  ."  And 
Vane,  looking  up  into  her  face,  saw  that  her  eyes  were 
a  little  misty.  .  .  . 

Gradually  the  ward  settled  down  into  silence.  Right 
at  the  other  end  a  man  was  groaning  feebly ;  while  just 
opposite,  looking  ghastly  in  the  dim  light,  a  boy  was 
staring  round  the  tent  with  eyes  that  did  not  see.  For 
hours  on  end  he  lay  unconscious,  breathing  the  rattling 
breath  of  the  badly  gassed;  then  suddenly  he  would 
lift  his  head,  and  his  eyes,  fixed  and  staring,  would 
slowly  turn  from  bed  to  bed.  He  looked  as  a  man 
looks  who  is  walking  in  his  sleep,  and  Vane  knew  he 
was  very  near  the  Great  Divide.  He  had  been  hit  in 
the  chest  by  a  piece  of  shell,  and  a  bit  of  his  coat  im- 
pregnated with  mustard  gas  had  been  driven  into  his 
lungs.  .  .  .  Every  now  and  then  Margaret  passed 
noiselessly  down  the  centre  between  the  two  rows  of 


MUFTI  39 

beds.  Once  she  lent  over  Vane  and  he  closed  his  eyes 
pretending  to  be  asleep.  But  every  time  as  she  came  to 
the  boy  opposite  she  stopped  and  looked  at  him  anx- 
iously. Once  she  was  joined  by  a  doctor,  and  Vane 
heard  their  muttered  conversation  .  .  . 

"I  can't  get  him  to  take  his  medicine,  Doctor.  He 
doesn't  seem  able  to  do  anything." 

"It  doesn't  much  matter,  Nurse,"  he  whispered — 
why  is  it  that  the  sick-room  whisper  seems  to  travel  as 
far  as  the  voice  of  the  Sergeant-Major  on  parade? 
"He  won't  get  through  to-night,  and  I'm  afraid  we 
can't  do  anything." 

The  doctor  turned  away,  and  Margaret  went  to  the 
end  of  the  tent  and  sat  down  at  her  table.  A  reading 
lamp  threw  a  light  on  her  face,  and  for  a  while  Vane 
watched  her.  Then  his  eyes  came  back  to  the  boy 
opposite,  and  rested  on  him  curiously.  He  was  uncon- 
scious once  again,  and  it  suddenly  struck  Vane  as 
strange  that  whereas,  up  in  front,  he  had  seen  death 
and  mutilation  in  every  possible  and  impossible  form — 
that  though  he  had  seen  men  hit  by  a  shell  direct,  and 
one  man  crushed  by  a  Tank — yet  he  had  never  been 
impressed  with  the  same  sense  of  the  utter  futility  of 
war  as  now,  in  face  of  this  boy  dying  in  the  bed  op- 
posite. To  have  come  so  far  and  then  to  pay  the  big 
price;  it  was  so  hard — so  very  pitiful;  and  Vane 
turned  over  to  shut  out  the  sight.  He  felt  suddenly 
frightened  of  the  thing  that  was  coming  nearer  and 
nearer  to  the  dying  boy;  furious  at  the  inability  of 
the  science  which  had  struck  him  down  to  save 
him.  .  .  . 

Vane  closed  his  eyes  and  tried  to  sleep,  but  sleep 
was  far  away  that  night.  Whenever  he  opened  them 


40  MUFTI 

he  saw  Margaret  writing  at  her  table ;  and  once  there 
came  to  him  an  irresistible  temptation  to  speak  to  her. 
He  felt  that  he  wanted  her  near  him,  if  only  for  a  mo- 
ment; he  wanted  to  lean  on  her — he  wanted  to  be 
taken  in  her  arms  like  a  little  child.  Angrily  he  closed 
his  eyes  again.  It  was  ridiculous,  absurd,  weak.  .  .  . 
But  there  have  been  times  in  this  war  when  the  strong- 
est man  has  sobbed  like  a  child  in  his  weakness.  ... 

"Sister !"  Vane  hardly  recognised  it  as  his  own  voice 
calling.  "Sister !"  Margaret  came  towards  him  down 
the  ward.  "Could  you  get  me  something  to  drink?" 

In  a  moment  she  had  returned  with  some  lemonade. 
"I  thought  you  were  asleep,  Derek/'  she  whispered. 
"Are  you  feeling  feverish?" 

She  put  a  cool  hand  on  his  forehead,  and  with  a  sigh 
of  relief  Vane  lay  back.  "I'm  frightened,  Margaret," 
he  said  so  low  that  she  scarce  could  hear  him.  "Just 
scared  to  death  .  .  >  of  that  boy  opposite.  Ain't  I 
a  damned  fool?" 

Her  only  answer  was  the  faintest  perceptible  pres- 
sure on  his  forehead.  Then  his  hand  came  up  and  took 
hers,  and  she  felt  the  touch  of  his  lips  on  it.  For  a 
moment  she  let  it  rest  there,  and  then  gently  withdrew 
it,  while  with  a  tired  sigh  Vane  closed  his  eyes.  .  .  . 

He  slept  maybe  for  two  hours,  and  then  he  found 
himself  wide  awake  again — every  nerve  intent,  like  a 
man  aroused  by  a  sudden  noise.  Margaret  was  reading 
at  her  table;  the  man  at  the  other  end  still  groaned 
feebly  in  his  sleep;  the  boy  was  staring  dazedly  at 
nothing  in  particular — but  there  was  something  else. 
He  knew  it. 

Suddenly  Margaret  put  down  her  book,  and  half 
rose  from  her  chair,  as  if  listening;  and  at  the  same 


MUFTI  41* 

moment  the  Gunner  woke  up.  Then  they  all  heard  it 
together — that  high  pitched,  ominous  drone  which  rises 
and  falls  in  a  manner  there  is  no  mistaking. 

"Boche,"  said  the  Gunner,  "Boche,  for  a  tanner. 
And  lots  of  them." 

"Damn  the  swine,"  muttered  Vane.  "Can't  they 
even  leave  a  hospital  alone?"  The  next  minute  any 
lingering  hope  was  destroyed.  Both  men  heard  it — 
the  well-known  whistling  whooce  of  the  bomb — the 
vicious  crack  as  it  burst;  both  men  felt  the  ground 
trembling  through  their  beds.  That  was  the  overture 
.  .  .  the  play  was  about  to  commence.  .  .  . 

All  around  them  bombs  rained  down  till  the  indi- 
vidual bursts  merged  into  one  continuous  roar.  The 
earth  shook  and  palpitated,  and,  to  make  matters 
worse,  the  lights  suddenly  went  out.  The  last  thing 
Vane  saw  was  Margaret  as  she  made  her  way,  calmly 
and  without  faltering,  to  the  boy's  bed.  He  had  a 
picture,  printed  indelibly  on  his  brain,  of  a  girl  with  a 
sweet  set  face,  of  a  gaping  boy,  stirred  into  some  sem- 
blance of  remembrance  by  the  familiar  noise  around 
him.  And  then,  in  the  darkness,  he  made  his  way 
towards  her. 

There  was  a  deafening  crash  close  to  him,  and  a 
fragment  tore  through  the  side  of  the  tent.  He  could 
see  the  blinding  flash,  and  involuntarily  he  ducked  his 
head.  Then,  running  and  stumbling,  he  reached  her. 
He  felt  her  standing  rigid  in  the  darkness,  and  even 
at  such  a  moment  he  felt  a  sudden  rush  of  joy  as  her 
hands  come  out  to  meet  him. 

"Lie  down,"  he  shouted,  "lie  down  at  once.  .  .  .  •  ' 

"The  boy,"  she  cried.    "Help  me  with  him,  Derek." 

Together  they  picked  him  up,  fumbling  in  the  dark- 


42  MUFTI 

ness,  and  laid  him  on  the  ground  beside  his  bed.  Then 
Vane  took  her  arm,  and  shouted  in  her  ear,  "Lie  down, 
I  tell  you,  lie  down  .  .  .  quite  flat."  Obediently  she 
lay  down,  and  he  stretched  himself  beside  her  on  the 
ground.  To  the  crashing  of  the  bombs  were  now 
added  the  shouts  and  curses  of  men  outside;  and  once 
Margaret  made  an  effort  to  rise. 

"The  patients,  Derek.    Let  me  go." 

With  his  one  sound  arm  he  kept  her  down  by  force. 
"You  can  do  nothing,"  he  said  roughly.  He  felt  her 
trembling  against  him,  and  a  wave  of  fury  against  the 
airmen  above  took  hold  of  him.  He  was  no  novice 
to  bombing;  there  had  been  weeks  on  end  when  the 
battalion  had  been  bombed  nightly.  But  then  it  had 
been  part  of  the  show — what  they  expected;  here  it 
was  so  different. 

A  sense  of  utter  impotence  filled  his  mind,  coupled 
with  a  raging  passion  at  the  danger  to  the  girl  beside 
him.  And  suddenly  his  lips  sought  hers. 

"It's  all  right,  my  dear/'  he  kept  on  saying,  "quite 
all  right.  It'll  be  over  soon."  And  so  almost  uncon- 
scious of  what  they  said  or  did,  they  lay  and  listened 
to  the  tornado  of  Death  around  them.  ... 

It  is  on  record  that  one  man  once  said  that  he 
thought  it  was  rather  amusing  to  be  in  a  raid.  That 
man  was  a  liar.  He  was  also  a  fool.  .  .  .  To  be 
bombed  is  poisonous,  rather  more  poisonous  than  to 
be  shelled.  If  there  are  no  dug-outs  there  is  only  one 
thing  to  be  done,  and  that  is  what  Vane  was  doing. 

To  lie  flat  on  the  ground  minimises  the  danger  ex- 
cept from  a  direct  hit;  and  a  direct  hit  is  remarkably 
sudden.  And  so — since  every  occupant  of  Number  13 
;was  well  aware  of  this  fact,  approximately  five  seconds 


MUFTI  43 

elapsed  after  the  light  went  out  before  all  the  patients 
who  could  move,  and  most  of  those  who  couldn't,  were 
lying  on  the  floor  beside  their  beds. 

Gradually  the  explosions  became  fewer  and  fewer; 
though  the  earth  still  shook  and  throbbed  like  a  living 
thing,  and  at  last  it  seemed  to  Vane  that  the  raid  was 
over.  He  was  lifting  himself  on  his  elbow  preparatory 
to  going  outside  and  exploring,  when  an  ominous 
whistling  noise  seemed  to  pierce  his  very  brain.  He 
had  just  time  to  throw  himself  on  to  the  girl  beside 
him  so  that  he  partially  covered  her,  when  the  last 
bomb  came.  He  heard  the  top  of  the  marquee  rip: 
there  was  a  deafening  roar  in  his  ears:  a  scorching 
flame  enveloped  him.  He  lay  stiff  and  rigid,  and  the 
thought  flashed  through  him  that  this  was  the  end. 
The  next  moment  he  knew  he  was  safe,  and  that  it 
was  merely  another  close  shave  such  as  he  had  not  been 
unaccustomed  to  in  the  past.  The  bomb  had  burst  in 
the  tent,  but  the  Fate  which  ordained  things  had  de- 
cided it  should  miss  him.  It  had  done  so  before,  and 
Vane  laughed  to  himself  .  .  . 

"Close,  my  lady,  very  close,"  he  whispered — "but 
not  quite  close  enough."  With  a  quick,  savage  move- 
ment he  turned  Margaret's  face  towards  him,  and 
kissed  her  on  the  lips.  For  a  while  she  clung  to  him, 
and  then  he  felt  her  relax  in  his  arms.  She  had  fainted, 
and  as  he  realised  this,  he  felt  something  pressing 
down  on  him.  With  his  sound  arm  he  fumbled  above 
his  head,  and  found  it  was  the  canvas  of  the  tent. 

Tugging  and  scrambling,  he  half  dragged,  half 
carried  Margaret  through  the  entrance  which  still  re- 
mained intact,  and  laid  her  down  on  the  grass  outside. 
Men  and  nurses  were  moving  about  in  the  darkness, 


44  MUFTI 

stumbling  over  guy  ropes  and  tent  pegs.  For  the  mo- 
ment every  one  was  too  intent  on  his  own  affairs  to 
bother  over  a  mere  faint,  and  Vane  left  her  lying 
against  the  side  of  the  tent.  Then  he  cautiously  felt 
his  way  round  to  investigate  the  damage.  A  great 
crater  midway  between  Number  13  and  the  next  tent 
showed  where  the  first  close  one  had  fallen,  but  he  had 
no  wish  to  explore  that  any  further.  He  stumbled 
round  the  edge  and  went  on.  Then  in  the  faint  light 
given  by  the  moon,  he  saw  what  had  happened  when 
the  last  bomb  had  burst.  It  was  nothing  worse  than 
many  similar  sights  he  had  seen,  but  Vane  as  he  looked 
at  the  wreckage  cursed  bitterly  and  fluently.  And  then 
of  a  sudden  he  stopped  cursing,  and  drew  a  deep 
breath.  .  .  .  Staring  up  at  him  in  the  cold  white  light 
was  what  was  left  of  the  Gunner  subaltern.  The  bomb 
had  burst  at  the  foot  of  his  bed  ...  A  cheery  soul 
...  A  bitter  end  .  .  . 

Opposite,  the  bed  blown  in  half,  the  boy  who  would 
not  have  lasted  through  the  night  sprawled  uncouthly 
on  to  the  floor.  God  knows!  a  merciful  release.  .  .  . 
A  few  hours  sooner — that's  all.  .  .  .  And  to  both — 
Kismet. 

All  around  lay  fragments  and  debris.  For  a  few 
seconds  he  stood  there  motionless,  while  every  now 
and  then  the  canvas  heaved  where  it  lay  on  the  ground, 
and  someone  crawled  out  into  the  open.  He  felt  a 
touch  on  his  arm,  and,  turning,  he  saw  Margaret. 
Dry-eyed,  she  watched  with  him,  while  the  wounded 
dragged  themselves  painfully  past  the  still  smoking 
crater,  and  the  acrid  smell  of  high  explosive  tainted  the 
air. 

In  the  far  distance  the  drone  of  aeroplanes  was 


MUFTI  45 

getting  fainter  and  fainter.  Success  had  crowned  the 
raider's  daring  exploit;  they  were  entitled  to  their 
well-earned  rest.  And  so  for  a  space  did  Vane  and 
Margaret  stand.  ...  It  was  only  when  very  gently 
he  slipped  his  arm  round  her  waist  that  a  hard  dry  sob 
shook  her. 

"Oh!  the  devils,"  she  whispered— "the  vile  devils." 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  following  afternoon  Vane  turned  his  steps 
once  again  towards  the  beach  at  Paris  Plage. 
The  wreckage  in  the  hospital  had  been  cleared  away, 
and  there  were  rows  laid  side  by  side  in  the  mortuary. 
Over  everyone  there  breathed  a  sense  of  restless  ex- 
citement and  fierce  anger,  and  Vane  wanted  to  get 
away  by  himself.  He  felt  that  he  had  to  think. 

For  suddenly  and  quite  unexpectedly  Margaret 
Trent  had  become  a  factor  in  his  life.  After  long 
years  their  paths  had  touched  again,  and  Vane  found 
that  he  could  not  turn  away  with  the  same  careless  in- 
difference as  he  had  in  the  past.  Though  she  had  al- 
ways attracted  him,  he  had  never  seriously  contem- 
plated the  final  step;  he  had  had  far  too  good  a  time 
as  a  bachelor.  And  then  when  she  had  so  unaccount- 
ably cooled  towards  him,  he  had  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders and  sought  distraction  elsewhere. 

Before  the  war  Derek  Vane  had  been  what  is  gen- 
erally described  as  a  typical  Englishman.  That  is  to 
say,  he  regarded  his  own  country — whenever  he 
thought  about  it  at  all — as  being  the  supreme  country 
in  the  world.  He  didn't  force  his  opinion  down  any- 
one's throat;  it  simply  was  so.  If  the  other  fellow 
didn't  agree,  the  funeral  was  his,  not  Vane's.  He  had 
to  the  full  what  the  uninitiated  regard  as  conceit;  on 
matters  connected  with  literature,  or  art,  or  music  his 

46 


MUFTI  47 

knowledge  was  microscopic.  Moreover,  he  regarded 
with  suspicion  anyone  who  talked  intelligently  on  such 
subjects.  On  the  other  hand,  he  had  been  in  the  eleven 
at  Eton,  and  was  a  scratch  golfer.  He  had  a  fine  seat 
on  a  horse  and  rode  straight ;  he  could  play  a  passable 
game  of  polo,  and  was  a  good  shot.  Possessing  as  he 
did  sufficient  money  to  prevent  the  necessity  of  work- 
ing, he  had  not  taken  the  something  he  was  supposed 
to  be  doing  in  the  City  very  seriously.  He  had  put  in 
a  periodical  appearance  at  a  desk  and  drawn  pictures 
on  the  blotting  paper;  for  the  remainder  of  the  time 
he  had  amused  himself.  He  belonged,  in  fact,  to  the 
Breed ;  the  Breed  that  has  always  existed  in  England, 
and  will  always  exist  till  the  world's  end.  You  may 
meet  its  members  in  London  and  in  Fiji ;  in  the  lands 
that  lie  beyond  the  mountains  and  at  Henley;  in  the 
swamps  where  the  stagnant  vegetation  rots  and  stinks; 
in  the  great  deserts  where  the  night  air  strikes  cold. 
They  are  always  the  same,  and  they  are  branded  with 
the  stamp  of  the  breed.  They  shake  your  hand  as  a 
man  shakes  it ;  they  meet  your  eye  as  a  man  meets  it. 
Just  now  a  generation  of  them  lie  around  Ypres  and 
La  Bassee ;  Neuve  Chapelle  and  Bapaume.  The  graves 
are  overgrown  and  the  crosses  are  marked  with  indel- 
ible pencil.  Dead — yes;  but  not  the  Breed.  The  Breed 
never  dies.  .  .  . 

We  have  it  on  reliable  evidence  that  the  Breed  has 
its  faults ;  its  education  is  rotten.  Men  of  great  learn- 
ing and  understanding  have  fulminated  on  the  subject; 
women  with  their  vast  experience  have  looked  upon  the 
Breed  with  great  clarity  of  vision  and  have  written  as 
their  eyes  have  seen ;  even  boys  themselves  who  doubt- 
less must  be  right,  as  the  question  concerns  them  most, 


48  MUFTI 

have  contributed  to  current  literature  one  or  two 
damning  indictments. 

It  may  well  be  that  hunting  butterflies  or  dissecting 
rats  are  more  suitable  pursuits  for  young  Percival 
Johnson  than  doing  scram  practice  up  against  the  play- 
ground wall.  It  may  well  be  that  it  would  be  a  far, 
far  better  thing  for  mob  adoration  to  be  laid  at  the 
feet  of  the  composer  of  the  winning  Greek  Iambic 
rather  than  at  the  cricketing  boots  of  the  Captain  of 
the  Eleven.  It  may  be  so,  but,  then,  most  assuredly  it 
may  not.  .  .  . 

The  system  which  has  turned  out  hundreds  of  the 
Breed,  and  whose  object  is  to  mould  all  who  pass 
through  it  on  the  model  of  the  Breed,  is  not  one  to  be 
dismissed  lightly.  Doubtless  it  has  its  faults;  a  little 
more  latitude  both  in  games  and  work  might  be  al- 
lowed; originality  encouraged  more.  But  let  us  be 
very  certain  before  we  gaily  pull  the  system  to  pieces 
that  the  one  we  erect  in  its  place  will  stand  the  strain, 
and  produce  the  one  great  result  beside  which  every- 
thing else  is  as  nothing.  For  if,  at  the  price  of  team 
work  and  playing  for  the  side,  we  can  only  buy  two 
or  three  more  years  of  individualism — at  an  age  when 
the  value  of  individualism  is,  at  best,  a  doubtful  bless- 
ing and,  at  worst,  sheer  blatant  selfishness — we  shall 
indeed  have  messed  things  up.  The  cranks  will  be  de- 
lighted ;  but  the  Empire  will  gnash  its  teeth. 

And  now  after  nearly  four  years  in  the  fiercest 
forcing  house  of  character  Derek  Vane  found  himself 
trying  to  take  an  inventory  of  his  own  stock.  And 
since  the  material  question  of  money  did  not  come  in 
to  cloud  the  horizon,  he  felt  he  could  do  it  impartially. 


MUFTI  49 

There  are  many  now  who,  having  sacrificed  every 
prospect,  find  their  outlook  haunted  by  the  spectre  of 
want;  there  are  many  more,  formerly  engaged  in 
skilled  trades  such  as  engineering  or  mining,  who  find 
that  they  have  four  years  of  leeway  to  make  up  in 
their  profession — four  years  of  increased  knowledge 
and  mechanical  improvements — unknown  to  them,  but 
not  to  their  competitors,  who  remained  behind.  But 
such  prospects  did  not  trouble  him.  The  future,  as  far 
as  money  was  concerned,  was  assured. 

Vane  thoughtfully  lit  a  cigarette.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  he  had  wasted  four  of  the  best  years  of  his  life, 
sitting,  save  for  brief  intervals,  on  the  same  filthy 
piece  of  ground,  with  the  sole  object  of  killing  complete 
strangers  before  they  killed  him.  In  this  laudable  pas- 
time he  had  succeeded  to  the  extent  of  two  for  certain 
and  one  doubtful.  The  only  man  whom  he  had  really 
wanted  to  slaughter — a  certain  brother  subaltern  who 
offended  him  daily — he  had  been  forced  to  spare  ow- 
ing to  foolish  regulations.  .  .  .  And  now  this  youth 
was  at  home  as  a  Temporary  Lieutenant-Colonel  in 
sole  control  of  an  ante-chamber  in  one  of  the  large 
hotels,  with  a  staff  of  four  flappers,  who  presented 
papers  for  his  signature  every  other  Tuesday  from 
2.30  to  4. 

With  a  short  laugh  he  got  up  and  shook  himself.  In 
the  distance  some  sand  dunes  beckoned  invitingly — 
sand  dunes  which  reminded  him  of  the  width  of  West- 
ward Ho!  and  a  certain  championship  meeting  there 
long  ago.  Slowly  he  strolled  towards  them,  going 
down  nearer  the  sea  where  the  sand  was  finer.  And 
all  the  time  he  argued  it  out  with  himself.  Four  years 
wasted!  But  had  they  been  wasted?  What  had  he 


50  MUFTI 

got  out  of  them  anyway?  Wasn't  he  twice  the  man 
that  he  had  been  four  years  ago?  Or  had  it  all  been 
futile  and  useless  ?  .  .  . 

No  man  who  has  been  through  the  rapids  can  find 
his  feet  in  an  hour's  self -analysis.  It  takes  time;  and 
during  that  time  much  may  happen,  good  or  ill,  ac- 
cording to  the  manner  of  the  finder.  The  great  un- 
rest of  the  world  is  not  felt  by  the  men  in  the  trenches. 
It  seethes  and  boils  outside,  and  only  when  a  man 
comes  back  to  so-called  peace  does  he  reach  the  whirl- 
pool, which  lies  at  the  end  of  the  rapids.  Then,  if  he 
be  of  the  type  of  Vane,  is  the  time  of  danger.  To 
lose  one's  sense  of  proportion  in  France  is  dangerous; 
to  lose  it  in  England  may  be  fatal.  One  has  so  much 
more  freedom. 

At  intervals  during  the  War  Vane  had  sampled  the 
whirlpool,  while  on  leave,  and  the  effect  it  had  pro- 
duced in  him  had  been  transitory.  The  contrast  was 
so  immense  that  it  had  failed  to  move  him  permanent- 
ly. The  time  that  he  had  been  in  its  clutches  was  too 
short.  He  retained  just  a  fleeting  picture  of  feverish 
gaiety  which  seemed  out  of  perspective;  of  profound 
bores  who  discussed  the  mistakes  of  the  Higher  Com- 
mand in  the  arm  chairs  of  the  Club ;  of  universal  chat- 
ter concerning  rations  and  meat  coupons.  Then  he 
had  left,  and  in  a  few  short  hours  had  been  back  once 
more  in  the  mud  holes.  A  good  leave  ?  Oh !  undoubt- 
edly, just  as  it  should  have  been,  where  the  one  thing 
necessary  was  contrast.  But  even  then  it  had  irritated 
him  at  times  to  realise  how  completely  they  failed  to 
understand.  He  would  not  have  had  them 
understand — true.  If  the  alternative  had  been  put  to 
him;  if  he  had  been  told  that  it  was  in  his  power  to 


MUFTI  51 

make  these  people  see  the  things  that  he  had  seen,  and 
hear  the  things  that  he  had  heard,  he  would  not  have 
done  so.  They  were  better  as  they  were — affording 
the  contrast;  enabling  men  to  forget. 

But  leave  is  one  thing,  permanence  is  another.  And 
at  the  moment  Vane  was  faced  with  the  latter.  The 
doctor  had  talked  airily  of  three  or  four  months,  and 
after  that  in  all  probability  a  spell  of  light  duty,  and  to 
Vane  that  seemed  like  a  permanency.  It  is  one  thing 
to  drug  oneself  in  the  waters  of  Lethe  for  a  fortnight 
of  one's  own  free  will :  it  is  altogether  different  to  be 
drugged  by  others  for  good.  And  dimly  he  felt  that 
either  he  or  they  would  have  to  go  under.  Two  totally 
incompatible  people  cannot  sit  next  one  another  at 
dinner  for  long  without  letting  some  course  get  cold. 
Unless  one  of  them  happens  to  be  dumb.  .  .  . 

But  were  they  totally  incompatible?  That  seemed 
to  be  the  crux  of  the  whole  matter.  To  the  soldiers, 
pulling  together,  unselfishness,  grinning  when  the  sky 
is  black,  that  is  the  new  philosophy.  One  hesitates  to 
call  it  new.  It  existed  once,  we  are  given  to  under- 
stand— or  at  any  rate  it  was  preached  and  practised  in 
days  gone  by.  Since  then  it  has  become  unfashion- 
able. .  .  . 

And  what  about  les  autres — who  have  kept  the  home 
fires  burning  ?  For  a  moment  Vane  stopped  and  stared 
in  front  of  him ;  then  he  laughed  aloud.  As  has  been 
said,  he  was  jangled — so  perhaps  he  may  be  forgiven. 

It  was  on  the  other  side  of  the  dunes  that  he  sud- 
denly found  Margaret.  She  had  her  back  towards 
him  as  he  came  over  the  top,  and  in  the  sand  his  foot- 
steps made  no  noise.  And  so  she  continued  her  pur- 


52  MUFTI 

suit  of  throwing  stones  at  a  bottle  a  few  yards  away, 
in  ignorance  of  the  fact  that  she  had  an  audience.  It 
is  a  lazy  occupation  at  the  best  of  times  and  her  render- 
ing of  it  was  no  exception  to  the  rule.  For  whole  min- 
utes on  end  she  would  sit  quite  still  gazing  out  to  sea; 
and  then,  as  if  suddenly  realising  her  slackness,  she 
would  continue  the  bombardment  furiously. 

For  a  while  Vane  watched  her  thoughtfully.  Was 
she  the  answer?  To  go  right  away  with  her  some- 
where— right  away  from  the  crowd  and  the  strife  of 
existence :  to  be  with  her  always,  watching  her  grow 
from  the  wife  to  the  mother,  seeing  her  with  his  chil- 
dren, feeling  that  she  was  his  and  no  one  else's.  God ! 
but  to  think  of  the  peace  of  it.  .  .  . 

He  watched  the  soft  tendrils  of  hair  curling  under 
the  brim  of  her  hat;  the  play  of  her  body  as  she  picked 
up  the  stones  and  threw  them.  Around  him  the  coarse 
grass  bent  slightly  in  the  breeze  and  the  murmur  of 
the  sea  came  faintly  over  the  dunes.  Away  in  front  of 
him  stretched  the  sand,  golden  in  the  warm  sun,  the 
surface  broken  every  now  and  then  by  the  dark  brown 
wooden  groins.  Not  a  soul  was  in  sight,  and  save  for 
some  gulls  circling  round  they  two  seemed  the  only 
living  things.  .  .  .  With  a  sudden  smile  he  stooped 
down  and  picked  up  a  stone — several,  in  fact,  and  fired 
a  volley.  There  was  a  tinkling  noise,  and  the  bottle 
fell.  Then  he  waited  for  her  to  look  round.  For  just 
a  little  while  there  was  silence,  and  then  she  turned  to- 
wards him  with  a  smile.  .  .  .  And  in  that  moment  it 
seemed  to  him  that  he  had  found  the  answer  he  sought. 
Surely  it  was  just  a  dream,  and  in  a  moment  he  would 
wake  up  and  see  the  dreadful  face  of  the  mess  waiter 
appearing  down  the  dug-out  steps.  It  is  impossible  to 


MUFTI  53 

stumble  over  sand  dunes  and  find  Margarets  in  France. 
These  things  simply  do  not  happen.  One  merely 
stumbles  over  the  cobbles  and  sees  the  woman  who 
keeps  the  estaminet  round  the  corner  washing  the  floor. 
And  her  lips  do  not  part  in  the  dawn  of  a  smile— mer- 
cifully; her  eyes  are  not  big  and  blue.  It  was  all  a 
dream !  last  night  was  all  a  dream.  Just  one  of  those 
pictures  he  had  seen  sometimes  in  the  candle  light, 
when  it  guttered  in  the  draught,  as  the  big  crump  burst 
outside.  .  .  . 

"Derek,  that  wasn't  fair."  With  an  effort  he  pulled 
himself  together  and  regarded  her  gravely.  Then  he 
scrambled  down  the  sandy  bank  to  her  side. 

"Do  you  mind  pinching  me?"  he  remarked,  holding 
out  his  hand.  "Hard — very  hard.  ...  I  want  to 
make  certain  I'm  not  dreaming." 

"Why  should  you  be?"  Her  voice  was  faintly 
tremulous.  "And  why  have  you  got  your  eyes  shut  ?" 

"Pinch  me,  please,  at  once."  Vane's  hand  was  still 
held  out,  and  she  gave  it  a  gentle  nip.  "Go  on,  harder 
>  .  .  Ah !  that's  better.  Now  promise  me  you  won't 
disappear  if  I  open  my  eyes." 

"I  promise,"  she  answered  solemnly,  but  struggling 
to  withdraw  her  hand  from  both  of  his,  where  he  had 
caught  it.  .  .  . 

"Oh!  my  dear,  my  dear,"  he  whispered.  "It's  just 
too  wonderful  to  be  true.  The  peace  of  it,  and  the 
glory,  and  you.  .  .  .  I'll  be  waking  up  in  a  minute,  my 
lady,  and  find  myself  crawling  round  the  outpost  line." 

He  laughed  gently  and  triumphantly,  and  drew  her 
towards  him.  Only  when  his  arm  was  round  her,  did 
he  pause.  .  .  .  And  then  it  was  the  look  in  her  eyes, 
as  much  as  her  two  hands  pressed  against  his  chest, 


54  MUFTI 

that  stopped  him.     "What  is  it,  Margaret,  my  lady? 
Aren't  you  going  to  kiss  me  ?" 

"No,  Derek — not  yet.  Perhaps  once  before  we  go. 
.  .  .  Please,  take  your  arm  away." 

For  a  moment  he  hesitated.  "Even  after  last  night." 

She  nodded.    "Principally  because  of  last  night." 

With  a  little  lift  of  his  eyebrows  Vane  did  as  he 
was  bid.  "I  knew  there  was  a  catch  somewhere,"  he 
murmured  plaintively.  "You  don't  want  me  to  go 
away  and  leave  you,  do  you?" 

She  shook  her  head  and  smiled.  Then  she  patted 
the  ground  beside  her.  "Come  and  sit  down;  I  want 
to  talk  to  you.  No — not  too  near." 

"Don't  you  trust  me?"  he  demanded  half  sullenly, 
as  he  took  a  seat  somewhat  further  removed  from 
temptation. 

"My  dear  Derek,  it  would  take  more  than  a  mere 
European  war  to  make  some  leopards  I  know  of 
change  their  spots." 

In  spite  of  himself  Vane  laughed.  "Well,  dash  it, 
Margaret,  there  was  a  distinct  flavour  of  the  pre-war 
about  you  last  night." 

She  closed  her  eyes,  and  her  hands  clenched.  "Oh ! 
don't,  Derek;  don't,  please.  As  long  as  I  live  I  shall 
never  forget  it.  It  was  too  horrible."  She  turned 
away  from  him  shuddering. 

"Dear — I'm  sorry."  He  leaned  forward  and  took 
her  hand.  "I  didn't  realise  quite  what  it  must  mean 
to  you.  You  see  it  was  that  poor  boy  who  was  dying 
in  the  bed  opposite  mine  that  made  me  jumpy  .  .  . 
frightened  .  .  .  God  knows  what!  The  smash  up  of 
the  raid  itself  left  me  almost  cold  by  comparison.  .  .  . 
I  suppose  it  was  the  other  way  round  with  you.  .  .  . 


MUFTI  55 

It's  just  a  question  of  what  one  is  used  to — anyway, 
don't  let's  talk  about  it." 

For  a  while  they  sat  in  silence,  and  then  Vane  spoke 
again.  "You  know  I'm  crossing  to-morrow,  I  sup- 
pose?'1 

"Yes."  Margaret  nodded.  "I  didn't  think  you'd 
stop  long." 

"Are  you  sorry  I'm  going?" 

"Of  course  I  am,"  she  answered  simply.  "You 
know  that.  .  .  .  But  I  think  perhaps  it's  just  as  well." 

"Just  as  well!"  repeated  Vane.    "Why?" 

"Because  .  .  .  oh !  because  of  a  lot  of  things.  You'd 
interfere  with  my  work  for  one." 

"How  dreadful,"  said  Vane  with  mock  gravity. 
"You'd  mix  the  medicines  and  all  that,  I  suppose." 
Then  he  turned  to  her  impulsively.  "Margaret,  my 
dear,  what  does  it  matter?  This  work  of  yours  won't 
go  on  for  ever.  And  after  the  War,  what  then  ?" 

"That's  just  it,"  she  said  slowly.    "What  then?" 

"Well,  as  a  preliminary  suggestion — why  not  marry 
me?" 

She  laughed — a  low,  rippling  laugh. 

"Do  you  remember  what  you  said  to  me  in  the  tea 
shop  yesterday  about  not  having  seen  a  girl  for  six 
months?" 

"What  on  earth  has  that  got  to  do  with  it?"  said 
Vane  frowning.  "I'm  not  a  child  or  a  callow  boy.  Do 
you  suppose  at  my  age  I  don't  know  my  own  mind? 
Why,  my  dear  girl.  ..."  Her  eyes  met  his,  and  the 
words  died  away  on  his  lips. 

"Don't,  dear,  don't.  You're  insulting  both  our  in- 
telligences." With  a  slight  laugh  she  leaned  over  and 


56  MUFTI 

rested  her  hand  on  his.     "You  know  perfectly  well 
what  I  mean." 

Vane  grunted  non-committally.  He  undoubtedly 
did  know  what  she  meant,  but  at  that  moment  it  was 
annoying  to  find  she  knew  it  too.  .  .  . 

"Listen,  Derek;  I  want  to  put  things  before  you 
as  I  see  them."  With  her  elbows  on  her  knee,  and  her 
chin  cupped  in  the  palms  of  her  hand,  she  was  staring 
across  the  stretch  of  tumbled,  grass-grown  hillocks. 

"We  know  one  another  too  well  not  to  be  perfectly 
frank.  How  much  of  last  night  was  just — what  shall 
I  say — nervous  tension?  Supposing  some  other  girl 
had  been  in  my  place?" 

Impetuously  he  started  to  speak,  but  once  again  the 
words  died  away  on  his  lips  as  he  saw  the  half-tender, 
half -humorous  look  in  her  eyes. 

"Dear,"  she  went  on  after  a  moment.  "I  don't  want 
to  hurt  you.  I  know  you  think  you're  in  love  with  me 
to-day ;  but  will  you  to-morrow  ?  You  see,  Derek,  this 
war  has  given  a  different  value  to  things.  .  .  .  Wheth- 
er one  likes  it  or  not,  it's  made  one  more  serious.  It 
hasn't  destroyed  our  capacity  for  pleasure,  but  it's 
altered  the  things  we  take  pleasure  in.  My  idea  of  a 
good  time,  after  it's  over,  will  never  be  the  same  as  it 
was  before." 

Vane  nodded  his  head  thoughtfully.  "I'm  not  cer- 
tain, dear,  that  that's  anything  to  worry  about." 

"Of  course  it  isn't — I  know  that.  But  don't  you  see, 
Derek,  where  that  leads  us  to?  One  can't  afford  to 
fool  with  things  once  they  have  become  serious.  .  .  . 
And  to  kiss  a  man,  as  I  kissed  you  last  night,  seems  to 
mean  very  much  more  to  me  than  it  did  once  upon  a 
time.  That's  why  I  want  to  make  sure.  ..."  She 


MUFTI  57 

hesitated,  and  then,  seeming  to  make  up  her  mind,  she 
turned  and  faced  him.  "I  would  find  it  easier  now  to 
live  with  a  man  I  really  loved — if  that  were  the  only 
way — than  to  be  kissed  by  two  or  three  at  a  dance 
whom  I  didn't  care  about.  Do  you  understand  ?" 

"My  dear,  I  understand  perfectly,"  answered  Vane. 
"The  one  is  big — the  other  is  petty.  And  when  we 
live  through  an  age  of  big  things  we  grow  ourselves." 

"I  gave  you  that  as  a  sort  of  example  of  what  I  feel, 
Derek,"  Margaret  continued  after  a  time.  "I  don't 
suppose  there  is  anything  novel  in  it,  but  I  want  you 
so  frightfully  to  understand  what  I  am  going  to  say. 
You  have  asked  me  to  marry  you — to  take  the  biggest 
step  which  any  woman  can  take.  I  tell  you  quite 
frankly  that  I  want  to  say  'Yes/  I  think  all  along 
that  I've  loved  you,  though  I've  flirted  with  other  men. 
...  I  was  a  fool  five  years  ago.  .  .  . " 

He  looked  at  her  quickly.  "Tell  me;  I  want  to 
know." 

"I  found  out  about  that  girl  you  were  keeping." 

Vane  started  slightly.    "Good  Lord!    But  how?" 

"Does  it  matter,  old  man?"  Margaret  turned  to 
him  with  a  smile.  "A  chance  remark  of  Billy  Travers, 
if  you  want  to  know.  And  then  I  asked  a  few  ques- 
tions, and  put  two  and  two  together.  It  seemed  a  de- 
liberate slight  to  me.  It  seemed  so  sordid.  You  see  I 
didn't  understand — then." 

"And  now  ?  Do  you  understand  now  ?"  He  leaned 
towards  her  eagerly. 

"Should  I  have  said  to  you  what  I  have  if  I  didn't?" 
She  held  out  her  hand  to  him,  and  with  a  quick  move- 
ment he  put  it  to  his  lips.  "I've  grown,  you  see  ... 
got  a  little  nearer  the  true  value  of  things.  I've  passed 


58  MUFTI 

out  of  the  promiscuous  kissing  stage,  as  I  told  you. 
.  ...  .  And  I  think  I  realise  rather  more  than  I  did  what 
men  are.  .  .  .  One  doesn't  make  them  up  out  of  books 
now.  All  this  has  taught  one  to  understand  a  man's 
temptations — to  forgive  him  when  he  fails."  Then  a 
little  irrelevantly — "They  seem  so  petty,  don't  they — 
now?" 

Vane  gently  dropped  the  hand  he  was  holding,  and 
his  face  as  he  looked  at  her  was  inscrutable.  Into  his 
mind  there  had  flashed  Lear's  question :  "And  goes  thy 
heart  with  this?"  Then  irritably  he  banished  it.  .  .  . 
God  bless  her !  She  was  all  heart :  of  course  she  was. 

"Will  you  tell  me  where  exactly  you  have  arrived 
at?"  he  asked  quietly. 

"At  the  certainty  that  there  lies  in  front  of  you  and 
me  work  to  be  done.  I  don't  know  what  that  work 
will  prove  to  be— but,  Derek,  we've  got  to  find  out.  It 
may  be  that  we  shall  do  it  together.  It  may  be  that 
my  work  is  just  to  be  with  you.  And  it  may  be  that 
it  isn't  that  you  won't  want  me.  Ah !  yes,  dear,"  as  he 
made  a  quick,  impatient  movement.  "There  is  always 
the  possibility.  I  want  you  to  go  and  find  out,  Derek, 
and  I  want  you  to  make  sure  that  you  really  want  me 
• — that  it  isn't  just  six  months  in  Flanders.  Also,"  she 
added  after  a  pause,  "I  want  to  be  quite  sure  about 
myself."  For  a  while  Vane  stared  out  to  sea  in  silence. 

"Supposing,"  he  said  slowly,  "the  work  in  front  of 
me  is  back  to  Flanders  again,  as  it  probably  will  be. 
And  supposing  I'm  not  so  lucky  next  time.  What 
then?" 

She  turned  and  faced  him.  "Why  then,  dear,  Fate 
will  have  decided  for  us,  won't  she?" 

"A  deuced  unsatisfactory  decision,"  grumbled  Vane, 


MUFTI  59 

"Margaret,  I  don't  want  to  worry  you;  I  don't  want 
to  force  myself  on  you  .  .  .  but  won't  you  give  me 
some  sort  of  a  promise  ?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "I'll  give  you  no  promise  at 
all,  Derek.  You've  got  to  find  yourself,  and  I've  got 
to  find  myself;  and  when  we've  both  done  that  we 
shall  know  how  we  stand  to  one  another.  Until  then 
.  .  .  well  just  give  it  a  miss  in  baulk,  old  man." 

Vane  regarded  her  curiously.  "If  last  night  and 
this  afternoon  had  happened  before  the  war,  I  wonder 
what  your  decision  would  have  been  ?" 

"Does  it  matter?"  she  answered  gently.  "Before 
the  war  is  just  a  different  age."  For  a  while  she  was 
silent;  then  she  drew  a  deep  breath.  "Don't  you  feel 
it  as  I  feel  it?"  she  whispered.  "The  bigness  of  it, 
the  wonder  of  it.  Underneath  all  the  horror,  under- 
lying all  the  vileness — the  splendour  of  it  all.  The 
glory  of  human  endurance.  .  .  .  People  wondered 
that  I  could  stand  it — I  with  my  idealism.  But  it 
seems  to  me  that  out  of  the  sordid  brutality  an  ideal 
has  been  born  which  is  almost  the  greatest  the  world 
has  ever  known.  Oh!  Derek,  we've  just  got  to  try 
to  keep  it  alive." 

"It's  the  devil,"  said  Vane  whimsically.  "Jove! 
lady  dear,  isn't  the  blue  of  the  sky  and  the  sea  and  the 
gold  of  the  sand  just  crying  out  to  be  the  setting  of 
a  lovers'  paradise?  Aren't  we  here  alone  just  hidden 
from  the  world,  while  the  very  gulls  themselves  are 
screaming :  'Kiss  her,  kiss  her'  ?  And  then  the  fairy 
princes,  instead  of  being  the  fairy  princess  to  the 
wounded  warrior,  orders  him  to  go  back  and  look  for 
work.  It's  cruel.  I  had  hoped  for  tender  love  and 
pity,  and  behold  I  have  found  a  Labour  Bureau." 


60  MUFTI 

Margaret  laughed.  "You  dear!  But  you  under- 
stand ?"  She  knelt  beside  him  on  the  sand,  and  her 
face  was  very  tender. 

"I  understand,"  answered  Vane  gravely.  "But,  oh ! 
my  lady,  I  hope  you're  not  building  fairy  castles  on 
what's  going  to  happen  after  the  war.  I'm  afraid 
my  faith  in  my  brother  man  is  a  very,  very  small 
flame." 

"All  the  more  reason  why  we  should  keep  it  alight,"; 
she  cried  fiercely.  "Derek,  we  can't  let  all  this  hide- 
ous mutilation  and  death  go  for  nothing  afterwards." 

"You  dear  optimist,"  Vane  smiled  at  her  eager, 
glowing  face  so  close  to  his  own.  "Do  you  suppose 
that  we  and  others  like  us  will  have  any  say  in  the 
matter?" 

She  beat  her  hands  together.  "Derek,  I  hate  you 
when  you  talk  like  that.  YouVe  got  it  in  you  to  do 
big  things — I  feel  it.  You  mustn't  drift  like  you  did 
before  the  war.  You've  got  to  fight,  and  others  like 
you  have  got  to  fight,  for  everything  that  makes  life 
worth  living  in  our  glorious,  wonderful  England." 

"Would  the  staff  be  a  little  more  explicit  in  their 
Operation  Orders,  please?"  murmured  Vane.  "Whom 
do  you  propose  I  should  engage  in  mortal  combat?" 
He  saw  the  slight  frown  on  her  face  and  leant  forward 
quickly.  "My  dear,  don't  misunderstand  me.  I 
don't  want  to  be  flippant  and  cynical.  But  I'm  just 
a  plain,  ordinary  man — and  I'm  rather  tired.  When 
this  show  is  over  I  want  peace  and  rest  and  comfort. 
And  I  rather  feel  that  it's  up  to  the  damned  fools  who 
let  us  in  for  it  to  clear  up  the  mess  themselves  for  a 
change." 

"But  you  won't  later,  old  boy,"  said  the  girl;  "not 


MUFTI  61 

after  you've  found  yourself  again.  You'll  have  to 
be  up  and  doing;  it  will  stifle  you  to  sit  still  and  do 
nothing."  She  looked  thoughtfully  out  to  sea  and 
then,  as  he  kept  silent,  she  went  on  slowly,  "I  guess 
we  all  sat  still  before  this  war;  drifted  along  the  line 
of  least  resistance.  We've  got  to  cut  a  new  way, 
Derek,  find  a  new  path,  which  will  make  for  the  good 
of  the  show.  And  before  we  can  find  the  path,  we've 
got  to  find  ourselves." 

She  turned  towards  him  and  for  a  long  minute  they 
looked  into  one  another's  eyes,  while  the  gulls  circled 
and  screamed  above  them.  Then  slowly  she  bent  for- 
ward and  kised  him  on  the  mouth.  .  .  .  "Go  and  find 
yourself,  my  dear,"  she  whispered.  "Go  and  make 
good.  And  when  you  have,  if  you  still  want  me,  I'll 

come  to  you." 

***** 

At  the  touch  of  her  lips  Vane  closed  his  eyes.  It 
seemed  only  a  few  seconds  before  he  opened  them 
again,  but  Margaret  was  gone.  And  then  for  a  while 
he  sat,  idly  throwing  stones  at  the  overturned  bottle. 
Just  once  he  laughed,  a  short,  hard  laugh  with  no  hu- 
mour in  it,  before  he  turned  to  follow  her. 

But  when  he  reached  the  top  of  the  sand  dune,  Mar- 
garet was  almost  out  of  sight  in  the  distance. 

Next  day  he  crossed  to  England  in  the  Guilford 
Castle. 


CHAPTER  IV 

DEREK  VANE  did  not  remain  long  in  hospital. 
As  soon  as  the  dressings  for  his  shoulder  had 
become  quite  straightforward,  the  machine,  in  the 
shape  of  two  doctors  from  Millbank  who  formed  the 
Board,  took  him  in  its  clutches  once  more  and  depos- 
ited him  at  a  convalescent  home.  Not  one  of  the 
dreary,  routine-like  places  which  have  been  in  the  past 
associated  with  convalescence,  but  a  large  country 
house,  kindly  placed  at  the  disposal  of  the  War  Of- 
fice by  its  owner. 

"Rumfold  Hall  for  you,  Vane,"  said  the  senior  of 
the  two  doctors.  "A  charming  house;  Lady  Patter- 
dale — a  charming  woman." 

"Rumfold  Hall!"  echoed  Vane.  "Good  Heavens! 
I  know  it  well.  Danced  there  often  during  the  old 
regime" 

"The  old  regime?"    The  doctor  looked  puzzled. 

"Yes.  It  used  to  belong  to  the  Earl  of  Forres. 
He  couldn't  afford  to  keep  it  up  and  his  other  places 
as  well,  so  he  sold  it  to  Sir  John  Patterdale.  .  .  .  Made 
his  money  in  hardware,  did  Sir  John.  .  .  .  Surely 
you  know  Patterdale's  Patent  Plate." 

The  Board  opined  that  it  did  not,  and  departed 
to  the  next  case.  It  even  seemed  to  regard  such  flip- 
pancy with  a  certain  amount  of  suspicion;  but  then 
Medical  Boards  are  things  of  some  solemnity.  .  .  . 

62 


MUFTI  63 

And  so  in  the  course  of  two  or  three  days  Vane 
drove  up  to  the  historic  gates  of  Rum  fold  Hall  in  an 
ambulance.  The  house,  situated  in  the  heart  of  Sur- 
rey, was  surrounded  by  extensive  grounds.  The  view, 
from  it  was  magnificent,  stretching  away  for  miles 
and  miles  to  the  south,  and  terminating  in  the  purple 
downs:  and  Vane,  as  the  car  waited  for  the  gates  to 
be  opened,  felt  that  indefinable  thrill  of  pride  that 
comes  to  every  man  when  he  looks  on  some  glorious 
stretch  of  his  own  country.  He  noticed  that  the 
lodge-keeper  had  changed  since  he  was  there  last,  and 
not,  it  struck  him,  for  the  better.  How  well  he  re- 
membered old  John,  with  his  sweet  old  wife,  and  their 
perfectly  kept  patch  of  garden  and  spotless  little 
kitchen.  .  .  .  He  had  had  two  sons,  both  in  the  Grena- 
diers, magnificent,  strapping  fellows — and  Vane  won- 
dered what  had  become  of  them.  .  .  . 

Somehow  he  couldn't  quite  imagine  old  John  not 
touching  his  hat  as  the  ambulance  came  in;  whereas 
his  successor  merely  gazed  curiously  at  the  occupants, 
and  then  slouched  back  into  the  lodge.  ...  Of  course 
hat-touching  is  a  relic  of  feudalism,  and,  as  such,  too 
hideous  to  contemplate  in  this  age  of  democracy;  but 
still — like  a  smile — it  costs  little  and  gives  much  pleas- 
ure. 

From  the  condition  of  the  grounds  it  did  not  seem 
that  the  present  owner  had  been  very  greatly  troubled 
by  the  labour  shortage.  The  flower  beds  were  a  riot 
of  colour;  the  grass  was  short  and  beautifully  kept. 
And  as  the  ambulance  rounded  a  corner  of  the  drive 
and  the  house  opened  up  in  front  Vane  saw  that  ten- 
nis was  in  full  swing  on  the  lawns. 

"Say — what  sort  of  a  guy  is  this  fellow  ?"  asked  a 


64  MUFTI 

New  Zealander  opposite  him  suddenly.  "It  seems  to 
me  to  be  some  house." 

Vane  looked  at  him  thoughtfully  for  a  moment  be- 
fore replying,  and  the  car  was  already  slowing  down 
before  he  finally  spoke.  "He's  a  substitute  for  the 
old  order  of  things.  And  according  to  the  labels  of 
all  substitutes,  they  are  the  last  word  in  modern  ef- 
ficiency." 

The  car  pulled  up  at  that  moment,  and  they  stepped 
out  to  find  Lady  Patterdale  standing  on  the  steps  to 
welcome  them. 

Let  it  be  said  at  once  that  Lady  Patterdale  was  a 
perfect  dear.  One  lost  sight  of  her  incredible  vul- 
garity in  view  of  the  charming  kindliness  of  her  heart. 
And,  after  all,  vulgarity  is  only  comparative.  In  the 
sanctity  of  the  little  shop  in  Birmingham  where  Sir 
John  had  first  laid  the  foundations  of  his  fortune,  as- 
pirates could  drop  unheeded.  What  mattered  then, 
as  always,  was  whether  the  heart  was  in  the  right 
place.  With  Lady  Patterdale  it  was.  .  .  . 

And  because  au  fond,  she  was  such  a  dear,  it  made 
it  all  the  more  pathetic  to  see  her  in  such  surroundings. 
One  felt,  and  one  felt  that  in  the  bottom  of  her  heart 
she  felt,  that  she  would  have  been  far  more  happy  in 
the  kitchen.  Except  that  in  the  kitchen  her  lost  as- 
pirates would  probably  have  been  handed  back  to  her 
on  a  salver,  whereas  in  the  drawing-room  they  were 
ground  into  the  carpet.  .  .  .  The  spread  of  educa- 
tion has  made  the  kitchen  a  very  dangerous  place. 

In  appearance  Lady  Patterdale  was  short  and  stout : 
eminently  the  type  of  woman  who,  if  clothed  according 
to  the  dictates  of  common  sense,  would  be  called  a 
"comfortable  old  party."  One  could  imagine  her  in 


MUFTI  65 

a  cotton  dress,  with  her  sleeves  rolled  up  above  her 
elbows,  displaying  a  pair  of  plump  forearms  and 
wielding  a  rolling  pin  in  front  of  a  good  hot  fire.  Cov- 
ered with  flour — her  face  very  red — she  would  have 
been  in  her  element.  ...  As  it  was,  the  dictates  o| 
fashion  had  cast  their  blight  over  the  proceedings. 

The  name  of  her  dressmaker  is  immaterial.  Orig- 
inally Smith  &  Co.  in  all  probability,  it  had  now  be- 
come Smythe  et  Cie,  and  advertised  in  all  the  most 
exclusive  papers.  Unfortunately,  in  the  case  of  Lady 
Patterdale  they  did  not  stop  at  advertising.  They 
carried  out  their  dreadful  threats  and  clothed  her.  The 
result  was  incredible.  She  resembled  nothing  so 
much  as  a  bursting  melon.  Onlookers  shuddered  at 
times  when  they  thought  of  the  trust  reposed  by  Provi- 
dence and  Lady  Patterdale  in  a  few  paltry  hooks  and 
eyes.  The  strain  appeared  so  terrific — the  conse- 
quences of  a  disaster  so  appalling. 

As  Vane  stepped  out  of  the  ambulance  Lady  Pat- 
terdale, supported  on  either  side  by  one  of  the  nurs- 
ing staff,  advanced  to  meet  him.  Her  jolly  old  face 
was  wreathed  in  smiles ;  cordiality  and  kindliness  oozed 
from  her. 

"Welcome,  both  of  you,"  she  cried.  "Welcome  to 
Rumfold  'all." 

The  Sister  on  her  left  started  as  if  a  serpent  had 
stung  her,  and  Vane  decided  that  he  did  not  like  her. 
Then  he  turned  to  the  kindly  old  woman,  and  smiled. 

"Thank  you,  Lady  Patterdale,"  he  said,  taking  her 
outstretched  hand.  "I'm  sure  it's  going  to  be  top- 
ping." 

"You're  just  in  nice  time  for  luncheon,"  she  con- 
tinued, as  she  turned  to  welcome  the  New  Zealander. 


56  MUFTI 

"And  after  that  you'll  be  able  to  find  your  way  about 
the  'ouse." 

Lunch  was  the  only  meal  where  all  the  convalescents 
met,  as,  generally,  some  of  them  had  retired  before 
dinner.  It  was  served  in  the  old  banqueting  hall, 
which,  when  Vane  remembered  it,  had  been  used  for 
dancing.  The  officers  had  it  to  themselves,  the  nurs- 
ing staff  feeding  elsewhere.  .  .  . 

The  contrast  struck  Vane  forcibly  as  he  sat  down 
at  the  long  table.  The  last  time  he  had  been  in  the 
room  he  and  three  or  four  kindred  spirits  had  emptied 
a  fruit  salad  into  a  large  wind  instrument  just  before 
Lthe  band  played  the  final  gallop.  .  .  . 

"Beer,  sir,  or  cider?"  He  half  turned  to  answer, 
when  suddenly  the  voice  continued.  "Why,  but 
surely,  sir,  it's  Mr.  Vane?" 

He  looked  up  and  saw  the  same  butler  who  had  been 
at  the  Hall  in  the  old  days. 

"Why,  Robert,"  he  said  delightedly,  "you  still  here? 
Jove!  but  I'm  glad  to  see  you.  I  thought  Sir  John 
had  made  a  clean  sweep  of  all  the  staff." 

The  butler  nodded  his  head  sadly.  "All  except  me, 
sir — me  and  Mrs.  Hickson;  *^She  was  the  housekeeper, 
if  you  remember.  And  she  couldn't  stand  it — that 
Is,  she  had  to  leave  after  a  year." 

"Ah!"  Vane's  tone  was  non-committal.  "And 
jwhat's  become  of  old  John — at  the  Lodge  ?" 

"He  went,  sir.  Sir  John  found  him  too  slow." 
Robert  poured  out  a  glass  of  beer.  "He's  in  the 
village,  sir.  One  of  his  sons  was  killed  at  Noove 
Chappel." 

"I'm  sorry  about  that.     I  must  go  and  see  him." 

"He'd  be  proud,  sir,  if  you'd  be  so  kind.     I  often 


MUFTI  67 

goes  down  there  myself  for  a  bit  of  a  chat  about  the 
old  days."  With  a  sigh  the  old  butler  passed  on,  and 
Vane  returned  to  his  lunch.  .  .  . 

"You  seem  to  know  our  archaic  friend,"  remarked 
the  officer  sitting  next  him.  "He's  a  dear  old 
thing.  .  .  ." 

"He's  one  of  a  dying  breed,"  said  Vane  shortly. 
"I  would  trust  old  Robert  with  everything  in  the 
world  that  I  possessed.  .  .  ." 

"That  so?"  returned  the  other.  "Has  he  been  here 
long?" 

"To  my  certain  knowledge  for  twenty-five  years, 
and  I  believe  longer.  It  almost  broke  his  heart  when 
he  heard  that  Lord  Forres  was  going  to  sell  the  place." 
Vane  continued  his  lunch  in  silence,  and  suddenly  a 
remark  from  the  other  side  of  the  table  struck  his 
ears. 

"I  say,  old  Side-whiskers  hasn't  given  me  my  fair 
whack  of  beer."  It  was  a  youngster  speaking,  and 
the  remark  was  plainly  audible  to  the  old  butler  two 
places  away.  For  a  moment  his  face  quivered,  and 
then  he  returned  to  the  speaker. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  he  remarked  quietly.  "Let 
me  fill  your  glass." 

"Thanks,  old  sport.  That's  a  bit  better  looking." 
Vane  turned  to  his  neighbour  with  an  amused  smile. 

"Truly  the  old  order  changeth,"  remarked  the  other 
thoughtfully.  "And  one's  inclined  to  wonder  if  it's 
changing  for  the  better." 

"Unfortunately  in  any  consideration  of  that  sort 
one  is  so  hopelessly  biassed  by  one's  own  personal 
point  of  view,"  returned  Vane. 

"Do  you  think  so?"     He  crumbled  the  bread  beside 


68  MUFTI 

him.  "Don't  you  think  one  can  view  a  little  episode 
like  that  in  an  unbiassed  way?  Isn't  it  merely  in 
miniature  what  is  going  on  all  over  the  country?  .  .  . 
The  clash  of  the  new  spirit  with  the  one  that  is  cen- 
turies old." 

"And  you  really  regard  that  youth  as  being  repre- 
sentative of  the  new  spirit?" 

"No  one  man  can  be.  But  I  regard  him  as  typical 
of  a  certain  phase  of  that  spirit.  In  all  probability  a 
magnificent  platoon  commander — there  are  thousands 
like  him  who  have  come  into  being  with  this  war.  The 
future  of  the  country  lies  very  largely  in  their  hands. 
What  are  they  going  to  make  of  it?" 

The  same  question — the  same  ceaseless  refrain. 
Sometimes  expressed,  more  often  not.  ENGLAND  in 
the  melting  pot — what  was  going  to  happen?  Un- 
consciously Vane's  eyes  rested  on  the  figure  of  the  old 
butler  standing  at  the  end  of  the  room.  There  was 
something  noble  about  the  simplicity  of  the  old  man, 
confronted  by  the  crashing  of  the  system  in  which  he 
and  his  father,  and  his  father's  father  had  been  born. 
A  puzzled  look  seemed  ever  in  his  eyes :  the  look  of 
a  dog  parted  from  a  beloved  master,  in  new  surround- 
ings amongst  strange  faces.  And  officially,  at  any 
rate,  the  crash  was  entirely  for  the  benefit  of  him  and 
his  kind  .  .  .  wherein  lay  the  humour. 

Vane  laughed  shortly  as  he  pushed  back  his  chair. 
"Does  anything  matter  save  one's  own  comfort?  Per- 
sonally I  think  slavery  would  be  an  admirable  inno- 
vation." 

Sir  John  Patterdale  was  everything  that  his  wife 
was  not  The  unprecedented  success  of  his  Patent 


MUFTI  69 

Plate  had  enabled  him  to  pay  the  necessary  money 
to  obtain  his  knighthood  and  blossom  into  a  county 
magnate.  At  one  time  he  had  even  thought  of  stand- 
ing for  Parliament  as  an  old  and  crusted  Tory;  but 
up  to  date  the  War  had  prevented  the  realisation  of 
such  a  charming  idyll.  Instead  he  sat  on  the  bench 
and  dispensed  justice. 

In  appearance  he  was  an  exact  counterpart  of  his 
wife — short  and  fat;  and  his  favourite  attitude  was 
standing  with  his  legs  wide  apart  and  his  thumbs  in 
the  arm-holes  of  his  waistcoat.  Strong  men  had  been 
known  to  burst  into  tears  on  seeing  him  for  the  first 
time  arrayed  as  the  sporting  squire;  but  the  role  was 
one  which  he  persistently  tried  to  fill,  with  the  help 
of  a  yellow  hunting  waistcoat  and  check  stockings. 
And  when  it  is  said  that  he  invariably  bullied  the  serv- 
ants, if  possible  in  front  of  a  third  person,  the  picture 
of  Sir  John  is  tolerably  complete.  He  was,  in  short, 
a  supreme  cad,  with  not  a  single  redeeming  feature. 
Stay — that  is  wrong.  He  still  retained  the  love  of  his 
wife,  which  may  perhaps — nay,  surely  shall — be  ac-* 
counted  to  him  for  righteousness.  .  .  . 

To  her  he  was  never  the  vain,  strutting  little 
bounder,  making  himself  ridiculous  and  offensive  by 
turn.  She  never  got  beyond  the  picture  of  him  when, 
as  plain  John  Patterdale,  having  put  up  the  shutters 
and  locked  the  door  of  the  shop,  he  would  come 
through  into  their  little  living-room  behind  for  his 
supper.  First  he  would  kiss  her,  and  then  taking  off 
his  best  coat,  he  would  put  on  the  old  frayed  one  that 
always  hung  in  readiness  behind  the  door.  And  after 
supper,  they  would  draw  up  very  close  together,  and 
dream  wonderful  dreams  about  the  future.  All  sorts 


70  MUFTI 

of  beautiful  things  danced  in  the  flames;  but  the  most 
beautiful  thing  of  all  was  the  reality  of  her  John,  with 
his  arm  round  her  waist,  and  his  cheek  touching  hers. 

Sometimes  now,  when  the  real  truth  struck  her  more 
clearly  than  usual — for  she  was  a  shrewd  old  woman 
for  all  her  kindness  of  heart — sometimes  when  she 
saw  the  sneers  of  the  people  who  ate  his  salt  and  drank 
his  champagne  her  mind  went  back  with  a  bitter  stab 
of  memory  to  those  early  days  in  Birmingham.  What 
had  they  got  in  exchange  for  their  love  and  dreams 
over  the  kitchen  fire — what  Dead  Sea  Fruit  had  they 
plucked?  If  only  something  could  happen;  if  only 
he  could  lose  all  his  money,  how  willingly,  how  joy- 
fully would  she  go  back  with  him  to  the  niche  where 
they  both  fitted.  They  might  even  be  happy  once 
again.  .  .  . 

He  had  needed  her  in  those  days :  turned  to  her  for 
comfort  when  business  was  bad,  taken  her  out  on  the 
burst — just  they  two  alone — when  things  looked  up 
and  there  had  been  a  good  day's  takings.  The  excite- 
ment over  choosing  her  best  hat — the  one  with  the 
bunches  of  fruit  in  it.  ...  As  long  as  she  lived  she 
would  never  forget  the  morning  she  tried  it  on,  when 
he  deserted  the  shop  and  cheered  from  the  bedroom 
door,  thereby  losing  a  prospective  customer. 

But  now,  all  he  cared  about  was  that  she  should 
go  to  the  best  people  and  spare  no  expense. 

"We  can  afford  it,  my  dear/*  he  was  wont  to  re- 
mark, "and  I  want  you  to  keep  your  end  up  with  the 
best  of  'em.  You  must  remember  my  position  in  the 
county." 

Even  alone  with  her  he  kept  up  the  pretence,  and 


MUFTI  71 

she  backed  him  loyally.  Was  he  not  still  her  man; 
and  if  he  was  happy,  what  else  mattered?  And  she 
would  call  herself  a  silly  old  woman.  .  .  . 

But  there  was  just  once  when  he  came  back  to  her, 
and  she  locked  away  the  remembrance  of  that  night 
in  her  secret  drawer — the  drawer  that  contained 
amongst  other  things  a  little  bunch  of  artificial  grapes 
which  had  once  adorned  the  hat.  .  .  . 

There  had  been  a  big  dinner  of  the  no-expense- 
spared  type;  and  to  it  had  been  invited  most  of  the 
County.  Quite  a  percentage  had  accepted,  and  it  was 
after  dinner,  just  before  the  guests  were  going,  that 
the  owner  of  a  neighbouring  house  had  inadvertently 
put  his  thoughts  into  words,  not  knowing  that  his  host 
was  within  hearing. 

"It  makes  me  positively  sick  to  see  that  imposssible 
little  bounder  strutting  about  round  Rum  fold." 

"Impossible  little  bounder."  It  hit  the  little  man 
like  a  blow  between  the  eyes,  and  that  night,  in  bed, 
a  woman  with  love  welling  over  in  her  heart  com- 
forted her  man. 

"It  wasn't  him  that  had  been  meant.  ...  Of  course 
not.  .  .  .  Why  the  dinner  had  been  a  tremendous  suc- 
cess. .  .  .  Lady  Sarah  Wellerby  had  told  her  so  her- 
self. .  .  .  Had  asked  them  over  in  return.  .  .  .  And 
had  suggested  that  they  should  give  a  dance,  to  which 
she  and  her  six  unmarried  daughters  would  be  de- 
lighted to  come." 

But  she  didn't  tell  him  that  she  had  overheard  Lady 
Sarah  remark  to  the  wife  of  Admiral  Blake  that  "the 
atrocious  little  cook  person  had  better  be  cultivated, 
she  supposed.  One  never  knows,  my  dear.  The  ball- 


72  MUFTI 

room  is  wonderful  and  men  will  come  anywhere  for  a 
good  supper.  .  .  ."  No,  she  didn't  tell  him  that: 
nor  mention  the  misery  she  had  suffered  during  din- 
ner. She  didn't  say  how  terrified  she  was  of  the  serv- 
ants— all  except  old  Robert,  who  looked  at  her  some- 
times with  his  kindly,  tired  eyes  as  if  he  understood. 
She  didn't  even  take  the  opportunity  of  voicing  the 
wish  that  was  dearest  to  her  heart;  to  give  it  all  up 
and  go  right  away.  She  just  coaxed  him  back  to  self- 
confidence,  and,  in  the  morning,  Sir  John  was  Sir 
John  once  more — as  insufferable  as  ever.  And  only 
a  tired  old  woman  knew  quite  how  tired  she  felt  .  .  . 

One  of  Sir  John's  pet  weaknesses  was  having  his 
wife  and  the  staff  photographed.  Sometimes  he  ap- 
peared in  the  group  himself,  but  on  the  whole  he  pre- 
ferred impromptu  snap-shots  of  himself  chatting  with 
wounded  officers  in  the  grounds.  For  these  posed 
photographs  Lady  Patterdale  arrayed  herself  in  a  light 
grey  costume,  with  large  red  crosses  scattered  over  it : 
and  as  Vane  was  strolling  out  into  the  gardens  after 
lunch,  he  ran  into  her  in  this  disguise  in  the  hall. 

"We're  'aving  a  little  group  taken,  Captain  Vane," 
she  said  as  she  passed  him.  "You  must  come  and  be 
in  it." 

"Why,  certainly,  Lady  Patterdale;  I  shall  be  only 
too  delighted.  Is  that  the  reason  of  the  war  paint?" 

She  laughed — a  jolly,  unaffected  laugh.  "My 
'usband  always  likes  me  to  wear  this  when  we're  took. 
^Thinks  it  looks  better  in  a  'ospital." 

As  Vane  stepped  through  the  door  with  her  he 
caught  a  fleeting  glimpse  of  officers  disappearing  rap- 


MUFTI  73 

idly  in  all  directions.  Confronting  them  was  a  large 
camera,  and  some  servants  were  arranging  chairs  un- 
der the  direction  of  the  photographer.  Evidently  the 
symptoms  were  well  known,  and  Vane  realised  that 
he  had  been  had. 

This  proved  to  be  one  of  the  occasions  on  which 
Sir  John  did  not  appear,  and  so  the  deed  did  not  take 
quite  as  long  as  usual.  To  the  staff  it  was  just  a 
matter  of  drill,  and  they  arranged  themselves  at  once. 
And  since  they  were  what  really  mattered,  and  the 
half-dozen  patients  merely  appeared  in  the  nature  of 
a  make  weight,  in  a  very  short  time,  to  everyone's 
profound  relief,  the  group  had  been  taken.  .  .  .  Vane, 
who  had  been  sitting  on  the  ground,  with  his  legs 
tucked  under  him  to  keep  them  in  focus,  silently  suf- 
fering an  acute  attack  of  cramp,  rose  and  stretched 
himself.  On  the  lawn,  tennis  had  started  again;  and 
he  could  see  various  officers  dotted  about  the  ground 
in  basket  chairs.  He  was  turning  away,  with  the  idea 
of  a  stroll — possibly  even  of  seeking  out  old  John  in 
the  village,  when  from  just  behind  his  shoulder  came 
a  musical  laugh. 

"Delightful,"  said  a  low,  silvery  voice;  "quite  de- 
lightful." 

Vane  swung  round  in  time  to  catch  the  glint  of  a 
mocking  smile — a  pair  of  lazy  grey  eyes — and  then, 
before  he  could  answer,  or  even  make  up  his  mind  if 
it  had  been  he  who  was  addressed,  the  girl  who  had 
spoken  moved  past  him  and  greeted  Lady  Patter- 
dale.  .  .  . 

He  waited  just  long  enough  to  hear  that  worthy 
woman's,  "My  dear  Joan,  'ow  are  you  ?"  and  then  with 
a  faintly  amused  smile  on  his  lips  turned  towards  the 


74  MUFTI 

cool,  shady  drive.  Margaret's  remark  in  the  sand 
dunes  at  Etaples  anent  leopards  and  their  spots  came 
back  to  him;  and  the  seasoned  war  horse  scents  the 
battle  from  afar.  , 


CHAPTER  V 

IT  was  under  the  shade  of  a  great  rhododendron 
bush  that  Vane  was  first  privileged  to  meet  Sir 
John.  The  bush  was  a  blaze  of  scarlet  and  purple, 
which  showed  up  vividly  against  the  green  of  the  grass 
and  the  darker  green  of  the  shrubs  around.  Through 
the  trees  could  be  seen  glimpses  of  the  distant  hills, 
and  Vane,  as  he  stumbled  unexpectedly  into  this  sud- 
den bit  of  fairyland,  caught  his  breath  with  the  glory 
of  it.  Then  with  drastic  suddenness  he  recalled  that 
half-forgotten  hymn  of  childhood,  of  which  the  last 
line  runs  somewhat  to  the  effect  that  "only  man  is 
vile." 

Sir  John  was  in  full  possession,  with  an  unwilling 
audience  of  one  bored  cavalryman.  It  was  one  of  his 
most  cherished  sentiments  that  nothing  aided  con- 
valescence so  much  as  a  little  bright,  breezy  conversa- 
tion on  subjects  of  general  interest — just  to  cheer  'em 
up,  and  make  'em  feel  at  home.  .  .  . 

At  the  moment  of  Vane's  arrival  he  was  discours- 
ing fluently  on  the  problem  of  education.  The  point 
is  really  immaterial,  as  Sir  John  discussed  all  prob- 
lems with  equal  fluency,  and  the  necessity  for  answer- 
ing was  rare.  He  had  a  certain  shrewd  business-like 
efficiency,  and  in  most  of  his  harangues  there  was  a 
good  deal  of  what,  for  want  of  a  better  word,  might 
be  termed  horse  sense.  But  he  was  so  completely 

75 


76  MUFTI 

self-opinionated  and  sure  of  himself  that  he  generally 
drove  his  audience  to  thoughts  of  poisons  that  left  no 
trace  or  even  fire-arms.  Especially  when  he  was  hold- 
ing forth  on  strategy.  On  that  subject  he  considered 
himself  an  expert,  and  regularly  twice  a  week  he  emp- 
tied the  smoking-room  at  Rum  fold  by  showing — with 
the  aid  of  small  flags — what  he  would  have  done  had 
he  been  in  charge  of  the  battle  of  the  Somme  in  1916. 
He  was  only  silenced  once,  and  that  was  by  a  pessi- 
mistic and  saturnine  Sapper. 

"Extraordinary,"  he  murmured.  "I  congratulate 
you,  Sir  John.  The  plan  you  have  outlined  is  ex- 
actly in  every  detail  the  one  which  the  Commander- 
in-Chief  discussed  with  me  when  overlooking  the 
charming  little  village  of  Gueudecourt.  'Johnson/ 
he  said,  'that  is  what  we  will  do/  and  he  turned  to 
the  Chief  of  Staff  and  ordered  him  to  make  a  note  of 
it."  The  Sapper  paused  for  a  moment  to  relight  his 
pipe.  Then  he  turned  impressively  to  Sir  John. 
"There  was  no  Chief  of  Staff.  The  Chief  of  Staff 
had  gone:  only  a  few  bubbles  welling  out  of  the  mud 
remained  to  show  his  fate.  And  then,  before  my 
very  eyes,  the  C.-in-C.  himself  commenced  to  sink. 
To  my  fevered  brain  it  seemed  to  be  over  in  a  minute. 
His  last  words  as  he  went  down  for  the  third  time 
were  'Johnson,  carry  on/  ...  Of  course  it  was  kept 
out  of  the  papers,  but  if  it  hadn't  been  for  a  Tank 
going  by  to  get  some  whisky  for  the  officers'  mess, 
which,  owing  to  its  pressure  on  neighbouring  ground 
squeezed  them  all  out  again  one  by  one — you  know, 
just  like  you  squeeze  orange  pips  from  your  fingers 
— the  affair  might  have  been  serious." 


MUFTI  77 

"I  did  hear  a  rumour  about  it,"  said  the  still  small 
voice  of  a  machine-gunner  from  behind  a  paper. 

"Of  course,"  continued  the  Sapper,  "the  plan  had 
to  be  given  up.  The  whole  of  G.H.Q.  sat  for  days  in 
my  dug-out  with  their  feet  in  hot  water  and  mustard. 
...  A  most  homely  spectacle — especially  towards  the 
end  when,  to  while  away  the  time,  they  started  sneez- 
ing in  unison.  ..." 

A  silence  settled  on  the  smoking-room,  a  silence 
broken  at  last  by  the  opening  and  shutting  of  the  door. 
Sir  John  had  retired  for  the  night.  .  .  . 

At  the  moment  that  Vane  paused  at  the  entrance 
to  his  bit  of  fairyland  Sir  John  was  in  full  blast. 

"What,  sir,  is  the  good  of  educating  these  people? 
Stuffing  their  heads  with  a  lot  of  useless  nonsense. 
And  then  talking  about  land  nationalisation.  The 
two  don't  go  together,  sir.  If  you  educate  a  man 
he's  not  going  to  go  and  sit  down  on  a  bare  field  and 
look  for  worms.  .  .  ."  He  paused  in  his  peroration 
as  he  caught  sight  of  Vane. 

"Ah !  ha !"  he  cried.  "Surely  a  new  arrival.  Wel- 
come, sir,  to  my  little  home." 

Restraining  with  a  great  effort  his  inclination  to 
kick  him,  Vane  shook  the  proffered  hand;  and  for 
about  ten  minutes  he  suffered  a  torrent  of  grandilo- 
quence in  silence.  At  the  conclusion  of  the  little  man's 
first  remark  Vane  had  a  fleeting  vision  of  the  cav- 
alryman slinking  hurriedly  round  two  bushes  and 
then,  having  run  like  a  stag  across  the  open,  going  to 
ground  in  some  dense  undergrowth  on  the  opposite 
side.  And  Vane,  to  his  everlasting  credit  be  it  said, 
did  not  even  smile.  , 


78  MUFTI 

After  a  while  the  flood  more  or  less  spent  itself, 
and  Vane  seized  the  occasion  of  a  pause  for  breath 
to  ask  after  old  John. 

"I  see  you've  got  a  new  lodge-keeper,  Sir  John. 
Robert  tells  me  that  the  old  man  who  was  here  under 
Lord  Forres  is  in  the  village." 

"Yes.  Had  to  get  rid  of  him.  Too  slow.  I  like 
efficiency,  my  boy,  efficiency.  .  .  .  ThatTs  my  motto." 
Sir  John  complacently  performed  three  steps  of  his 
celebrated  strut.  "Did  you  know  the  Hearl?" 
Though  fairly  sound  on  the  matter,  in  moments  of 
excitement  he  was  apt  to  counterbalance  his  wife  with 
the  elusive  letter.  .  .  . 

Vane  replied  that  he  did — fairly  well. 

"A  charming  man,  sir  ...  typical  of  all  that  is 
best  in  our  old  English  nobility.  I  am  proud,  sir,  to 
have  had  such  a  predecessor.  I  number  the  Hearl, 
sir,  among  my  most  intimate  friends.  .  .  ." 

Vane,  who  remembered  the  graphic  description 
given  him  by  Blervie — the  Earl's  eldest  son — at  lunch 
one  day,  concerning  the  transaction  at  the  time  of  the 
sale,  preserved  a  discreet  silence. 

"A  horrible-looking  little  man,  old  bean,"  that 
worthy  had  remarked.  "Quite  round,  and  bounces 
in  his  chair.  The  governor  saw  him  once,  and  had  to 
leave  the  room.  T  can't  stand  it,'  he  said  to  me 
outside,  'the  dam  fellow  keeps  hopping  up  and  down, 
and  calling  me  His  Grace.  He's  either  unwell,  or  his 
trousers  are  coming  off.' '  Lord  Blervie  had  helped 
himself  to  some  more  whisky  and  sighed.  "I've  had 
an  awful  time,"  he  continued  after  a  while.  "The 
governor  sat  in  one  room,  and  Patterdale  bounced  in 
the  other,  and  old  Podmore  ran  backwards  and  for- 


MUFTI  79 

wards  between,  with  papers  and  things.  And  if  we 
hadn't  kept  the  little  blighter  back  by  force  he  was 
going  to  make  a  speech  to  the  old  man  when  it  was  all 
fixed  up.  .  .  ." 

At  last  Sir  John  left  Vane  to  himself,  and  with  a 
sigh  of  relief  he  sank  into  the  chair  so  recently  vacated 
by  the  cavalryman.  In  his  hand  he  held  a  couple  of 
magazines,  but,  almost  unheeded,  they  slipped  out  of 
his  fingers  on  to  the  grass.  He  felt  supremely  and 
blissfully  lazy.  The  soft  thud  of  tennis  balls,  and  the 
players'  voices  calling  the  score,  came  faintly  through 
the  still  air,  and  Vane  half  closed  his  eyes.  Then  a 
sudden  rustle  of  a  skirt  beside  him  broke  into  his 
thoughts,  and  he  looked  up  into  the  face  of  the  girl 
whom  Lady  Patterdale  had  greeted  as  Joan. 

"Why  it's  my  bored  friend  of  the  photograph!" 
She  stood  for  a  moment  looking  at  him  critically, 
rather  as  a  would-be  purchaser  looks  at  a  horse.  "And 
have  they  all  ran  away  and  left  you  to  play  by  your- 
self ?"  She  pulled  up  another  chair  and  sat  down  op- 
posite him. 

"Yes.  Even  Sir  John  has  deserted  me."  As  he 
spoke  he  was  wondering  what  her  age  was.  Some- 
where about  twenty-two  he  decided,  and  about  ten 
more  in  experience. 

"For  which  relief  much  thanks,  I  suppose?" 

"One  shouldn't  look  a  gift  host  in  the  stockings," 
returned  Vane  lightly.  "I  think  it's  very  charming 
of  him  and  his  wife  to  have  us  here." 

"Do  you?  It's  hopelessly  unfashionable  not  to  do 
war  work  of  some  sort,  and  this  suits  them  down  to 
the  ground.  .  .  .  Why  the  Queen  visited  Rum  fold 
the  other  day  and  congratulated  Lady  Patterdale  on 


8o  MUFTI 

her  magnificent  arrangements."  There  was  a  mocking 
glint  in  her  eyes,  otherwise  her  face  was  perfectly 
serious. 

"You  don't  say  so."  Vane  gazed  at  her  in  amaze- 
ment. "And  did  you  dress  up  as  a  nurse  for  the  oc- 
casion ?" 

"No,  I  watched  from  behind  a  gooseberry  bush. 
You  see,  I'm  a  very  busy  person,  and  my  work  can't 
be  interrupted  even  for  a  Royal  visit." 

"Would  it  be  indiscreet,"  murmured  Vane,  "to 
inquire  what  your  work  is?" 

"Not  a  bit."  The  girl  looked  solemnly  at  him.  "I 
amuse  the  poor  wounded  officers." 

"And  do  you  find  that  very  hard?"  asked  Vane 
with  becoming  gravity. 

"Frightfully.  You  see,  they  either  want  to  make 
love  to  me,  or  else  to  confide  that  they  love  another. 
My  chief  difficulty  as  I  wander  from  bush  to  bush  is 
to  remember  to  which  class  the  temporary  occupant 
belongs.  I  mean  it's  a  dreadful  thing  to  assure  a  man 
of  your  own  undying  devotion,  when  the  day  before 
you  were  sympathising  with  him  over  Jane  not  having 
written.  It  makes  one  appear  of  undecided  intellect." 

"Why  don't  you  institute  a  little  system  of  labels?" 
asked  Vane.  "Blue  for  those  who  passionately  adore 
you — red  for  those  who  love  someone  else.  People 
of  large  heart  might  wear  several." 

"I  think  that's  quite  wonderful."  She  leaned  back 
in  her  chair  and  regarded  Vane  with  admiration. 
"And  I  see  that  you're  only  a  Captain.  .  .  .  How  true 
it  is  that  the  best  brains  in  the  Army  adorn  the  lower 
positions.  By  the  way — I  must  just  make  a  note  of 
your  name."  She  produced  a  small  pocketbook  from 


MUFTI  81 

her  bag  and  opened  it.  "My  duties  are  so  arduous 
that  I  have  been  compelled  to  make  lists  and  things." 

"Vane,"  he  answered,  "Christian — Derek." 

She  entered  both  in  her  book,  and  then  shut  it  with 
a  snap.  "Now  I'm  ready  to  begin.  Are  you  going  to 
amuse  me,  or  am  I  going  to  amuse  you?" 

"You  have  succeeded  in  doing  the  latter  most  thor- 
oughly," Vane  assured  her. 

"No — have  I  really?  I  must  be  in  good  form  to- 
day. One  really  never  can  tell,  you  know.  An  open- 
ing that  is  a  scream  with  some  people  falls  as  flat  as 
ditch-water  with  others."  She  looked  at  him  pensively 
for  a  moment  or  two,  tapping  her  small  white  teeth 
with  a  gold  pencil. 

Suddenly  Vane  leaned  forward.  "May  I  ask  your 
age,  Joan?" 

Her  eyebrows  went  up  slightly.     "Joan!"  she  said. 

"I  dislike  addressing  the  unknown,"  remarked 
Vane,  "and  I  heard  Lady  Patterdale  call  you  Joan. 
But  if  you  prefer  it,  may  I  ask  your  age,  Miss 
Snooks?" 

She  laughed  merrily.  "I  think  I  prefer  Joan,  thank 
you;  though  I  don't  generally  allow  that  until  the 
fourth  or  fifth  performance.  You  see,  if  one  gets  on 
too  quickly  it's  so  difficult  to  fill  in  the  time  at  the  end 
if  the  convalescence  is  a  long  one." 

"I  am  honoured,"  remarked  Vane.  "But  you 
haven't  answered  my  question." 

"I  really  see  no  reason  why  I  should.  It  doesn't 
come  into  the  rules — at  least  not  my  rules.  .  .  .  Be- 
sides I  was  always  told  that  it  was  rude  to  ask  per- 
sonal questions." 

"I  am  delighted  to  think  that  something  you  were 


82  MUFTI 

taught  at  your  mother's  knee  has  produced  a  lasting 
effect  on  your  mind/'  returned  Vane.  "However,  at 
this  stage  we  won't  press  it.  ...  I  should  hate  to 
embarrass  you."  He  looked  at  her  in  silence  for  a 
while,  as  if  he  was  trying  to  answer  to  his  own  satis- 
faction some  unspoken  question  on  his  mind. 

"I  think,"  she  said,  "that  I  had  better  resume  my 
official  duties.  What  do  you  think  of  Rumfold  Hall?" 

"It  would  be  hard  in  the  time  at  my  disposal,  my 
dear  young  lady,  to  give  a  satisfactory  answer  to  that 
question."  Vane  lit  a  cigarette.  "I  will  merely  point 
out  to  you  that  it  contains  a  banqueting  chamber  in 
which  Bloody  Mary  is  reported  to  have  consumed  a 
capon  and  ordered  two  more  Protestants  to  be  burned 
— and  that  the  said  banqueting  hall  has  been  used  of 
recent  years  by  the  vulgar  for  such  exercises  as  the 
fox  trot  and  the  one  step.  Further,  let  me  draw  your 
attention  to  the  old  Elizabethan  dormer  window  from 
which  it  is  reported  that  the  celebrated  Sir  Walter 
Raleigh  hung  his  cloak  to  dry,  after  the  lady  had 
trodden  on  it.  On  the  staircase  can  be  seen  the  iden- 
tical spot  where  the  dog  basket  belonging  to  the  aged 
pug  dog  of  the  eighteenth  Countess  of  Forres  was 
nightly  placed,  to  the  intense  discomfiture  of  those 
ill-behaved  and  rowdy  guests  who  turned  the  hours 
of  sleep  into  a  time  for  revolting  debauches  with  soda 
water  syphons  and  flour.  In  fact  it  is  commonly 
thought  that  the  end  of  the  above-mentioned  aged 
pug  dog  was  hastened  by  the  excitable  Lord  Frederick 
de  Vere  Thomson  hurling  it,  in  mistake  for  a  footstool, 
at  the  head  of  his  still  more  skittish  spouse — the  cele- 
brated Tootie  Rootles  of  the  Gaiety.  This  hallowed 
spot  has  been  roped  off,  and  is  shown  with  becoming 


MUFTI  83 

pride  by  the  present  owner  to  any  unfortunate  he  can 
inveigle  into  listening  to  him.  Finally  I  would  draw 
your  attention.  ..." 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  stop,"  she  interrupted  weakly. 
"The  answer  is  adjudged  incorrect  owing  to  its  length." 

"Don't  I  get  the  grand  piano?"  he  demanded. 

"Not  even  the  bag  of  nuts,"  she  said  firmly.  "I 
want  a  cigarette.  They're  not  gaspers,  are  they?" 

"They  are  not,"  he  said,  holding  out  his  case.  "I 
am  quite  ready  for  the  second  question." 

She  looked  at  him  thoughtfully  through  a  cloud  of 
smoke.  "Somehow  I  don't  think  I  will  proceed  along 
the  regular  lines,"  she  remarked  at  length.  "Your 
standard  seems  higher." 

"Higher  than  whose  ?"  Vane  asked. 

"Than  most  of  the  others."  Her  smile  was  a  trifle 
enigmatic.  "There  is  a  cavalryman  here  and  one  or 
two  others — but  .  .  .  well !  you  know  what  I  mean." 

"I  do  know  what  you  mean — exactly,"  he  remarked 
quietly.  "And,  Joan,  it's  all  wrong." 

"It's  all  natural,  anyway.  Their  ways  are  not  our 
ways ;  their  thoughts  are  not  our  thoughts.  ...  I 
can't  help  whether  I'm  being  a  poisonous  snob  or  not ; 
it's  what  I  feel.  Take  Sir  John.  Why,  the  man's  an 
offence  to  the  eye.  He's  a  complete  outsider.  What 
right  has  he  got  to  be  at  Rumfold?" 

"The  right  of  having  invented  a  patent  plate.  And 
if  one  looks  at  it  from  an  unbiassed  point  of  view  it 
seems  almost  as  good  a  claim  as  that  of  the  descendant 
of  a  really  successful  brigand  chief." 

"Are  you  a  Socialist  ?"  she  demanded  suddenly. 

"God  knows  what  I  am,"  he  answered  cynically. 
"I'm  trying  to  find  out.  You  see  something  has  hap- 


84  MUFTI 

pened  over  the  water  which  alters  one's  point  of  view. 
It  hasn't  happened  over  here.  And  just  at  the  mo- 
ment I  feel  rather  like  a  stranger  in  a  strange  land." 
He  stared  thoughtfully  at  a  thrush  which  was  dealing 
with  a  large  and  fat  worm.  Then  he  continued — 
"You  were  talking  about  outsiders.  Lord!  my  dear 
girl,  don't  think  I  don't  know  what  you  mean.  I  had 
a  peerless  one  in  my  company — one  of  the  first  and 
purest  water — judged  by  our  standards.  He  was  ad- 
dicted to  cleaning  his  nails,  amongst  other  things,  with 
a  prong  of  his  fork  at  meals.  .  .  .  But  one  morning 
down  in  the  Hulluch  sector — it  was  stand  to.  Dawn 
was  just  spreading  over  the  sky — grey  and  sombre; 
and  lying  at  the  bottom  of  the  trench  just  where  a 
boyau  joined  the  front  line,  was  this  officer.  His  face 
was  whiter  than  the  chalk  around  him,  but  every  now 
and  then  he  grinned  feebly.  What  was  left  of  his  body 
had  been  covered  with  his  coat :  because  you  see  a  bit 
of  a  flying  pig  had  taken  away  most  of  his  stomach." 

The  girl  bit  her  lip — but  her  eyes  did  not  leave 
Vane's  face. 

"He  died,  still  lying  in  the  wet  chalky  sludge,  still 
grinning,  and  thanking  the  stretcher  bearers  who  had 
carried  him."  He  paused  for  a  moment — his  mind 
back  in  the  Land  over  the  Water.  "There  are  thou- 
sands like  him,"  he  went  on  thoughtfully,  "and  over 
there,  you  see,  nothing  much  matters.  A  man,  whether 
he's  a  duke  or  a  dustman,  is  judged  on  his  merits  in 
the  regimental  family.  Everyone  is  equally  happy,  or 
equally  unhappy — because  everyone's  goal  is  the 


same." 


"And  over  here,"  put  in  the  girl,  "everyone's  goal 
is  different.     How  could  it  be  otherwise?     It's  when 


MUFTI  85 

you  get  a  man  trying  to  kick  the  ball  through  the 
wrong  goal — and  succeeding — that  the  trouble  comes." 

"Quite  right,"  agreed  Vane.  "Personally  I'm  trying 
to  find  out  what  my  own  goal  is." 

"What  was  it  before  the  war?" 

"Soda  water  syphons  and  flour ;  hunting,  cricket  and 
making  love." 

"And  you  don't  think  that  would  still  fill  the  bill?" 

"The  Lord  knows!"  laughed  Vane.  "In  the  fulness 
of  time  probably  I  shall  too." 

"And  how  do  you  propose  to  find  out?"  persisted  the 
girl. 

Once  again  Vane  laughed.  "By  the  simple  process 
of  doing  nothing,"  he  answered.  "I  shall — as  far  as 
my  arduous  military  duties  allow  me — carry  on.  .  .  , 
I  believe  everyone  is  carrying  on.  .  .  .  It's  the  phase, 
isn't  it?  And  in  the  process,  as  far  as  it  progresses 
before  I  have  to  return  to  France — I  may  get  some 
idea  as  to  whether  I  am  really  a  pronounced  Pacifist  or 
a  Last  Ditcher." 

For  a  while  she  looked  at  him  curiously  without 
speaking.  "You're  somewhat  different  from  most  of 
my  patients,"  she  announced  at  last. 

He  bowed  ironically.  "I  trust  that  in  spite  of  that, 
I  may  find  favor  in  your  sight.  It's  something,  at 
any  rate,  not  to  be  labelled  G.S.,  as  we  say  in  the 
Army." 

"Frankly  and  honestly,  you  despise  me  a  little?" 

Vane  considered  her  dispassionately.  "Frankly  and 
honestly,  I  do.  And  yet  ...  I  don't  know.  Don't 
you  see,  lady,  that  I'm  looking  at  your  life  through  my 
spectacles;  you  look  at  it  through  your  own.  For  all 
I  know  you  may  be  right,  and  I  may  be  wrong.  In 


86  MUFTI 

fact,"  he  continued  after  a  short  pause,  "it's  more 
than  likely  it  is  so.  You  at  any  rate  have  not  been 
qualifying  for  a  lunatic  asylum  during  the  past  four 
years." 

She  rose  from  her  chair,  and  together  they  strolled 
towards  the  lawn.  Tennis  was  still  in  full  swing,  and 
for  a  time  they  watched  the  game  in  silence. 

"Do  those  men  think  as  you  think  ?"  she  asked  him 
suddenly.  "Are  they  all  asking  the  why  and  the  where- 
fore— or  is  it  enough  for  them  to  be  just  out  of  it?" 

"It's  enough  for  us  all  for  the  time,"  he  answered 
gravely.  "And  then  it  tugs  and  it  pulls  and  we  go 
back  to  it  again.  .  .  .  It's  made  everyone  a  bit  more 
thoughtful;  it's  made  everyone  ask  the  why  and  the 
wherefore,  insistently  or  casually,  according  to  the 
manner  of  the  brute.  But  Hell  will  come  if  we  don't 
— as  a  whole — find  the  same  answer.  ..." 

She  idly  twisted  her  parasol,  and  at  that  moment 
the  cavalryman  lounged  up.  "Thought  you'd  deserted 
us,  Miss  Devereux."  He  glanced  at  Vane  and  grinned. 
"I  appeal  to  you,"  he  cried,  "as  an  infantry  soldier  to 
state  publicly  whether  you  have  ever  seen  a  more  mas- 
terly bit  of  scouting  than  mine  when  the  old  man 
buttonholed  you.  Jove!  you  should  have  seen  it. 
Purple  face  caught  him  by  the  rhododendron  bush, 
where  he'd  been  inflicting  himself  on  me  for  a  quarter 
of  an  hour;  and  in  one  minute  by  the  clock  I'd  got 
to  ground  in  the  parsley  bed." 

They  all  laughed,  and  for  a  few  minutes  the  two 

men  chatted  with  her ;  then  Vane  disappeared  into  the 

house  to  write  letters.     It  was  a  slow  and  laborious 

•process,  and,  as  a  rule,  he  wrote  as  few  as  possible. 

But  there  was  one  he  had  to  get  off  his  conscience, 


MUFTI  87 

though  he  dreaded  doing  so.  A  promise  to  a  dead  pal 
is  sacred.  .  .  . 

At  length  the  scrawl  was  finished,  and  looking  up 
from  the  writing  table  he  saw  Joan  Devereux  passing 
through  the  hall.  He  got  up  and  hurried  after  her. 
"Would  you  mind  addressing  this  for  me  ?"  He  held 
out  the  envelope.  "I've  managed  to  spoil  the  paper 
inside,  but  I  don't  want  to  tax  the  postman  too  highly." 

With  a  smile  she  took  the  letter  from  him,  and 
picked  up  a  pen.  "Well,"  she  said  after  a  moment, 
"I'm  waiting." 

She  looked  up  into  his  face  as  he  stood  beside  her 
at  the  table,  and  a  glint  of  mischief  came  into  her 
eyes  as  they  met  his.  He  was  staring  at  her  with  a 
thoughtful  expression,  and,  at  any  rate  for  the  mo- 
ment he  seemed  to  find  it  a  pleasant  occupation. 

"And  what  may  the  seeker  after  truth  be  thinking 
of  now?"  she  remarked  flippantly.  "Condemning  me 
a  second  time  just  as  I'm  trying  to  be  useful  as  well 
as  ornamental?" 

"I  was  thinking  .  .  ."  he  began  slowly,  and  then 
he  seemed  to  change  his  mind.  "I  don't  think  it  mat- 
ters exactly  what  I  was  thinking,"  he  continued,  "ex- 
cept that  it  concerned  you.  Indirectly,  perhaps — pos- 
sibly even  directly  .  .  .  you  and  another.  ..." 

"So  you  belong  to  the  second  of  my  two  classes,  do 
you?"  said  the  girl.  "Somehow  I  thought  you  were 
in  the  first.  ..." 

"The  class  you  embrace?"  asked  Vane  drily. 

With  a  quick  frown  she  turned  once  more  to  the 
table.  "Supposing  you  give  me  the  address." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Vane  quietly.  "The  re- 
mark was  vulgar,  and  quite  uncalled  for.  After  four 


88  MUFTI 

years  in  the  Army,  one  should  be  able  to  differentiate 
between  official  and  unofficial  conversation." 

"May  I  ask  what  on  earth  you  mean?"  said  the 
girl  coldly. 

"I  take  it  that  your  preliminary  remarks  to  me  in 
the  garden  were  in  the  nature  of  official  patter — used 
in  your  professional  capacity.  .  .  .  When  off  duty, 
so  to  speak,  you're  quite  a  normal  individual.  .  .  . 
Possibly  even  proper  to  the  point  of  dulness."  He  was 
staring  idly  out  of  the  window.  "In  the  States,  you 
know,  they  carry  it  even  further.  ...  I  believe  there 
one  can  hire  a  professional  female  co-respondent — a 
woman  of  unassailable  virtue  and  repulsive  aspect — 
who  will  keep  the  man  company  in  compromising  cir- 
cumstances long  enough  for  the  wife  to  establish  her 


case." 


The  girl  sprang  up  and  confronted  him  with  her 
eyes  blazing,  but  Vane  continued  dreamily.  "There 
was  one  I  heard  of  who  was  the  wife  of  the  Dissenting 
Minister,  and  did  it  to  bolster  up  her  husband's  chari- 
ties. ..." 

"I  think,"  she  said  in  a  low,  furious  voice,  "that  you 
are  the  most  loathsome  man  I  ever  met." 

Vane  looked  at  her  in  surprise.  "But  I  thought  we 
were  getting  on  so  nicely.  I  was  just  going  to  ask  you 
to  have  lunch  with  me  one  day  in  town — iq  your  offi- 
cial capacity,  of  course.  ..." 

"If  you  were  the  last  man  in  the  world,  and  I  was 
starving,  I  wouldn't  lunch  with  you  in  any  capacity." 
Her  breast  was  rising  and  falling  stormily. 

"At  any  rate,  it's  something  to  know  where  we 
stand,"  said  Vane  pleasantly. 

"If  I'd  realised  that  you  were  merely  a  cad — and  an 


MUFTI  89 

outsider  of  the  worst  type — do  you  suppose  that  I 
would  have  talked — would  have  allowed.  .  .  ."  The 
words  died  away  in  her  throat,  and  her  shoulders 
shook.  She  turned  away,  biting  furiously  at  her  hand- 
kerchief with  her  teeth.  "Go  away — oh!  go  away;  I 
hate  you." 

But  Vane  did  not  go  away;  he  merely  stood  there 
looking  at  her  with  a  faint,  half -quizzical  smile  on  his 
lips. 

"Joan,"  he  said,  after  a  moment,  "I'm  thinking  I 
have  played  the  deuce  with  your  general  routine.  All 
the  earlier  performances  will  be  in  the  nature  of  an 
anti-climax  after  this.  But — perhaps,  later  on,  when 
my  abominable  remarks  are  not  quite  so  fresh  in  your 
mind,  you  won't  regard  them  as  quite  such  an  insult 
as  you  do  now.  Dreadful  outsider  though  I  am — un- 
pardonably  caddish  though  it  is  to  have  criticised  your 
war  work — especially  when  I  have  appreciated  it  so 
much — will  you  try  to  remember  that  it  would  have 
been  far  easier  and  pleasanter  to  have  done  the  other 
thing?" 

Slowly  her  eyes  came  round  to  his  face,  and  he  saw 
that  they  were  dangerously  bright.  "What  other 
thing?"  she  demanded. 

"Carried  on  with  the  game ;  the  game  that  both  you 
and  I  know  so  well.  Hunting,  cricket  and  making 
love.  .  .  .  Is  it  not  written  in  'Who's  Who' — unless 
that  interesting  publication  is  temporarily  out  of 
print?" 

"It  strikes  me,"  the  girl  remarked  ominously,  "that 
to  your  caddishness  you  add  a  very  sublime  conceit." 

Vane  grinned.  "Mother  always  told  me  I  suffered 
from  swelled  head.  ..."  He  pointed  to  the  envelope 


90  MUFTI 

still  unaddressed,  lying  between  them  on  the  writing 
table.  "After  which  slight  digression — do  you  mind  ?" 

She  picked  up  the  pen,  and  sat  down  once  again.  "I 
notice  your  tone  changes  when  you  want  me  to  help 
you."  ' 

Vane  made  no  answer.  "The  address  is  Mrs.  Ver- 
non,  14,  Culman  Terrace,  Balham,"  he  remarked 
quietly. 

"I  trust  she  is  doing  war  work  that  pleases  you/' 
sneered  the  girl.  She  handed  him  the  envelope,  and 
then,  as  she  saw  the  blaze  in  his  eyes,  she  caught  her 
breath  in  a  little  quick  gasp. 

"As  far  as  I  know/'  he  answered  grimly,  "Mrs. 
Vernon  is  endeavoring  to  support  herself  and  three 
children  on  the  large  sum  of  one  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds  a  year.  Her  husband  died  in  my  arms  while 
we  were  consolidating  some  ground  we  had  won."  He 
took  the  envelope  from  her  hand.  "Thank  you ;  I  am 
sorry  to  have  had  to  trouble  you." 

He  walked  towards  the  door,  and  when  he  got  to  it, 
he  paused  and  looked  back.  Joan  Devereux  was 
standing  motionless,  staring  out  of  the  window.  Vane 
dropped  his  letter  into  the  box  in  the  hall,  and  went 
uo  the  stairs  to  his  room. 


CHAPTER  VI 

fTIHERE  was  no  objection  to  Vane  going  to  Lon- 
J_  don,  it  transpired.  He  had  merely  to  write  his 
name  in  a  book,  and  he  was  then  issued  a  half-fare 
voucher.  No  one  even  asked  him  his  religion,  which 
seemed  to  point  to  slackness  somewhere. 

It  was  with  feelings  the  reverse  of  pleasant  that 
Vane  got  into  the  first-class  carriage  one  morning  four 
days  after  he  had  written  to  Mrs.  Vernon.  She  would 
be  glad  to  see  him,  she  had  written  in  reply,  and  she 
was  grateful  to  him  for  taking  the  trouble  to  come. 
Thursday  afternoon  would  be  most  convenient;  she 
was  out  the  other  days,  and  on  Sundays  she  had  to 
look  after  the  children.  .  .  . 

Vane  opened  the  magazine  on  his  knees  and  stared 
idly  at  the  pictures.  In  the  far  corner  of  the  carriage 
two  expansive  looking  gentlemen  were  engaged  in  an 
animated  conversation,  interrupted  momentarily  by 
his  entrance.  In  fact  they  had  seemed  to  regard  his 
intrusion  rather  in  the  light  of  a  personal  affront. 
Their  general  appearance  was  not  prepossessing,  and 
Vane  having  paused  in  the  doorway,  and  stared  them 
both  in  turn  out  of  countenance,  had  been  amply  re- 
warded by  hearing  himself  described  as  an  impertinent 
young  puppy. 

He  felt  in  his  blackest  and  most  pugilistic  mood  that 
morning.  As  a  general  rule  he  was  the  most  peaceful 

91 


92  MUFTI 

of  men ;  but  at  times,  some  strain  inherited  from  a  re- 
mote ancestor  who,  if  he  disliked  a  man's  face  hit  it 
hard  with  a  club,  resurrected  itself  in  him.  There 
had  been  the  celebrated  occasion  in  the  Promenade  at 
the  Empire,  a  few  months  before  the  war,  when  a  man 
standing  in  front  of  him  had  failed  to  remove  his  hat 
during  the  playing  of  "The  King/'  It  was  an  opera 
hat,  and  Vane  removed  it  for  him  and  shut  it  up.  The 
owner  turned  round  just  in  time  to  see  it  hit  the  cur- 
tain, whence  it  fell  with  a  thud  into  the  orchestra.  .  .  . 
Quite  inexcusable,  but  the  fight  that  followed  was  all 
that  man  could  wish  for.  The  two  of  them,  with  a 
large  chucker-out,  had  finally  landed  in  a  heap  in 
Leicester  Square— with  the  hatless  gentleman  under- 
neath. And  Vane — being  fleet  of  foot,  had  finally  had 
the  supreme  joy  of  watching  from  afar  his  disloyal 
opponent  being  escorted  to  Vine  Street,  in  a  winded 
condition,  by  a  very  big  policeman.  .  .  . 

Sometimes  he  wondered  if  other  people  ever  felt  like 
that;  if  they  were  ever  overcome  with  an  irresistible 
desire  to  be  offensive.  It  struck  him  that  the  war 
had  not  cured  this  failing;  if  anything  it  had  made  it 
stronger.  And  the  sight  of  these  two  fat,  oily  speci- 
mens complacently  discussing  business,  while  a  woman 
— in  some  poky  house  in  Balham — was  waiting  to 
hear  the  last  message  from  her  dead,  made  him  gnash 
his  teeth. 

Of  course  it  was  all  quite  wrong.  No  well-brought- 
up  and  decorous  Englishman  had  any  right  to  feel  so 
annoyed  with  another  man's  face  that  he  longed  to  hit 
it  with  a  stick.  But  Vane  was  beginning  to  doubt 
whether  he  had  been  well  brought  up;  he  was  quite 
certain  that  he  was  not  decorous.  He  was  merely  £ar 


MUFTI  93 

more  natural  than  he  had  ever  been  before;  he  had 
ceased  to  worry  over  the  small  things. 

And  surely  the  two  other  occupants  of  the  carriage 
were  very  small.  At  least  they  seemed  so  to  him.  For 
all  he  knew,  or  cared,  they  might  each  of  them  be  in 
control  of  a  Government  Department;  that  failed  to 
alter  their  littleness. 

Fragments  of  their  conversation  came  to  him  over 
the  rattle  of  the  wheels,  and  he  became  more  and  more 
irate.  The  high  price  of  whisky  was  one  source  of 
complaint — it  appeared,  according  to  one  of  them,  that 
it  was  all  going  to  France,  which  caused  a  shortage  for 
those  at  home.  Then  the  military  situation.  .  ;  -v 
Impossible,  grotesque.  .  .  .  Somebody  ought  to  be 
hanged  for  having  allowed  such  a  thing  to  happen. 
After  four  years  to  be  forced  back — inexcusable. 
What  was  wanted  was  somebody  with  a  business  brain 
to  run  the  Army.  ...  In  the  meantime  their  money 
was  being  wasted,  squandered,  frittered  away.  .  .  . 

Vane  grew  rampant  in  his  corner  as  he  listened ;  his 
mental  language  became  impossibly  lurid.  He  felt 
that  he  would  willingly  have  given  a  thousand  or  two 
to  plant  them  both  into  that  bit  of  the  outpost  line, 
where  a  month  before  he  had  crawled  round  on  his 
belly  at  dawn  to  see  his  company.  Grey-faced  and 
grey-coated  with  the  mud,  their  eyes  had  been  clear  and 
steady  and  cheerful,  even  if  their  chins  were  covered 
with  two  days'  growth.  And  their  pay  was  round 
about  a  shilling  a  day.  .  .  . 

It  was  just  as  the  train  was  slowing  down  to  enter 
Victoria  that  he  felt  he  could  contain  himself  no  long- 
er. The  larger  and  fatter  of  the  two,  having  concluded 
an  exhaustive  harangue  on  the  unprecedented  wealth 


94  MUFTI 

at  present  being  enjoyed  by  some  of  the  soldiers*  wives 
in  the  neighborhood — and  unmarried  ones,  too,  mark 
you ! — stood  up  to  get  his  despatch  case. 

"It  seems  a  pity,  gentlemen,  you  bother  to  remain 
in  the  country,"  remarked  Vane  casually.  "You  must 
be  suffering  dreadfully." 

Two  gentlemen  inferred  icily  that  they  would  like 
to  know  what  he  meant. 

"Why  not  return  to  your  own?"  he  continued,  still 
more  casually.  "Doubtless  the  Egyptian  Expedition- 
ary Force  will  soon  have  it  swept  and  garnished  for 
you." 

The  train  stopped ;  and  Vane  got  out.  He  was  ac- 
companied to  the  barrier  by  his  two  late  travelling 
companions,  and  from  their  remarks  he  gathered  that 
they  considered  he  had  insulted  them ;  but  it  was  only 
when  he  arrived  at  the  gate  that  he  stopped  and  spoke. 
He  spoke  at  some  length,  and  the  traffic  was  unavoid- 
ably hung  up  during  the  peroration. 

"I  have  listened,"  said  Vane  in  a  clear  voice,  "to 
your  duologue  on  the  way  up,  and  if  I  thought  there 
were  many  like  you  in  the  country  I'd  take  to  drink. 
As  it  is,  I  am  hopeful,  as  I  told  you,  that  Jerusalem 
will  soon  be  vacant.  Good  morning.  ..." 

And  the  fact  that  two  soldiers  on  leave  from  France 
standing  close  by  burst  into  laughter  did  not  clear  the 
air.  .  .  . 

"Jimmy,"  said  Vane  half  an  hour  later,  throwing 
himself  into  a  chair  in  his  club  next  to  an  old  pal  in 
the  smoking-room,  "I've  just  been  a  thorough  paced 
bounder ;  a  glorious  and  wonderful  cad.  And,  Jimmy ! 
I  feel  so  much  the  better  for  it." 

Jimmy  regarded  him  sleepily  from  the  depths  of  his 


MUFTI  95 

chair.  Then  his  eyes  wandered  to  the  clock,  and  he 
sat  up  with  an  effort.  "Splendid,  dear  old  top,"  he 
remarked.  "And  since  it  is  now  one  minute  past 
twelve,  let's  have  a  spot  to  celebrate  your  lapse  from 
virtue." 

With  the  conclusion  of  lunch,  the  approaching  or- 
deal at  Balham  began  to  loom  large  on  his  horizon. 
In  a  vain  effort  to  put  off  the  evil  hour,  he  decided 
that  he  would  first  go  round  to  his  rooms  in  Half 
Moon  Street.  He  had  kept  them  on  during  the  war, 
only  opening  them  up  during  his  periods  of  leave.  The 
keys  were  in  the  safe  possession  of  Mrs.  Green,  who, 
with  her  husband,  looked  after  him  and  the  other  oc- 
cupants of  the  house  generally.  As  always,  the  worthy 
old  lady  was  delighted  to  see  him.  .  .  . 

"Just  cleaned  them  out  two  days  ago,  Mr.  Vane, 
sir,"  she  remarked.  New-fangled  Army  ranks  meant 
nothing  to  her :  Mr.  Vane  he  had  started — Mr.  Vane 
he  would  remain  to  the  end  of  the  chapter. 

"And,  Binks,  Mrs.  Green  ?"  But  there  was  no  need 
for  her  to  answer  that  question.  There  was  a  sudden 
scurry  of  feet,  and  a  wire-haired  fox-terrier  was  jump- 
ing all  over  him  in  ecstasy. 

"My  son,  my  son,"  said  Vane,  picking  the  dog  up. 
"Are  you  glad  to  see  your  master  again?  One  lick, 
you  little  rascal,  as  it's  a  special  occasion.  And  inci- 
dentally, mind  my  arm,  young  fellow-me-lad." 

He  put  Binks  down,  and  turned  with  a  smile  to  Mrs. 
Green.  "Has  he  been  good,  Mrs.  Green?" 

"Good  as  good,  sir,"  she  answered.  "I'm  sure  he's 
a  dear  little  dog.  Just  for  the  first  week  after  you 
went — the  same  as  the  other  times — he'd  hardly  touch 


o6  MUFTI 

a  thing.  Just  lay  outside  your  door  and  whined  and 
whined  his  poor  little  heart  out.  .  .  . " 

The  motherly  old  woman  stooped  to  pat  the  dog's 
head,  and  Binks  licked  her  fingers  once  to  show  that  he 
was  grateful  for  what  she'd  done.  But — and  this  was 
a  big  but — she  was  only  a  stop-gap.  Now — and  with 
another  scurry  of  feet,  he  was  once  again  jumping 
round  the  only  one  who  really  mattered.  A  series  of 
short  staccato  yelps  of  joy  too  great  to  be  controlled ;  a 
stumpy  tail  wagging  so  fast  that  the  eye  could  scarcely 
follow  it ;  a  dog.  .  .  . 

"I  believe,  Mrs.  Green,"  said  Vane  quietly,  "that 
quite  a  number  of  people  in  England  have  lately  been 
considering  whether  it  wouldn't  be  a  good  thing  to 
kill  off  the  dogs.  ..." 

"Kill  off  the  dogs,  sir!"  Mrs.  Green's  tone  was  full 
of  shrill  amazement.  "Kill  Binks?  I'd  like  to  see 
anyone  try."  .  .  .  Vane  had  a  momentary  vision  of 
his  stalwart  old  landlady  armed  with  a  poker  and  a 
carving  knife,  but  he  did  not  smile. 

"So  would  I,  Mrs.  Green.  ...  So  would  I.  .  .  . " 
And  with  a  short  laugh  he  took  the  key  from  her  and 
went  upstairs. 

The  room  into  which  he  went  first  was  such  as  one 
would  have  expected  to  find  in  the  abode  of  a  young 
bachelor.  Into  the  frame  of  the  mirror  over  the  fire- 
place a  score  of  ancient  invitations  were  stuck.  Some 
heavy  silver  photo  frames  stood  on  the  mantelpiece, 
while  in  the  corner  a  bag  of  golf  clubs  and  two  or 
three  pairs  of  boxing  gloves  gave  an  indication  of  their 
owner's  tastes.  The  room  was  spotlessly  clean,  and 
with  the  sun  shining  cheerfully  in  at  the  window  it 
seemed  impossible  to  believe  that  it  had  been  empty 


MUFTI  97 

for  six  months.  A  few  good  prints — chiefly  sporting 
— adorned  the  walls;  and  the  books  in  the  heavy  oak 
revolving  bookcase  which  stood  beside  one  of  the  big 
leather  chairs  were  of  the  type  generally  described  as 
light.  .  .  . 

For  a  time  Vane  stood  by  the  mantelpiece  thought- 
fully staring  out  of  the  window ;  while  Binks,  delirious 
with  joy,  explored  each  well-remembered  corner,  and 
blew  heavily  down  the  old  accustomed  cracks  in  the 
floor.  Suddenly  with  a  wild  scurry,  he  fled  after  his 
principal  joy — the  one  that  never  tired.  He  had  seen 
Vane  throw  it  into  the  corner,  and  now  he  trotted  se- 
dately towards  this  wonderful  master  of  his,  who  had 
so  miraculously  returned,  with  his  enemy  in  his  mouth. 
He  lay  down  at  Vane's  feet;  evidently  the  game  was 
about  to  begin. 

The  enemy  was  an  indiarubber  dog  which  emitted  a 
mournful  whistling  noise  through  a  hole  in  its  tummy. 
It  was  really  intended  for  the  use  of  the  very  young  in 
their  baths — to  enable  them  to  squirt  a  jet  of  water 
into  the  nurse's  eye ;  but  it  worried  Binks  badly.  The 
harder  he  bit,  the  harder  it  whistled.  It  seemed  impos- 
sible to  kill  the  damn  thing.  .  .  . 

For  a  while  he  bit  the  whistling  atrocity  to  his 
heart's  content ;  then  with  it  still  between  his  fore  paws 
he  looked  up  into  Vane's  face.  Surely  his  master  had 
not  forgotten  the  rules  of  the  game.  Really — it  was 
a  little  steep  if  it  was  so.  But  Vane,  as  far  as  Binks 
could  see,  was  looking  at  one  of  the  photographs  on 
the  mantelpiece  with  a  slight  smile  on  his  face.  One 
or  two  mournful  whistles  produced  no  apparent  result. 
So  Binks  decided  it  was  time  for  desperate  measures. 
He  stood  up ;  and,  with  his  head  on  one  side,  he  con- 


98  MUFTI 

templated  his  hated  adversary,  prone  on  the  carpet 
Then  he  gave  a  short  sharp  bark — just  as  a  remind- 
er. ... 

It  was  quite  sufficient,  and  Vane  apologised  hand- 
somely. "Beg  your  pardon,  old  man,"  he  remarked. 
"For  the  moment  I  was  thinking  of  trivialities."  He 
moved  his  foot  backwards  and  forwards  close  to  the 
indiarubber  dog,  and  Binks,  with  his  ears  pricked  up, 
and  his  head  turning  slightly  as  he  followed  the  move- 
ment of  his  master's  foot,  waited.  Shortly,  he  knew 
that  this  hereditary  enemy  of  his  would  fly  to  one  side 
of  the  room  or  the  other.  The  great  question  was — 
which?  It  would  hit  the  wall,  and  rebound  on  to  the 
floor,  where  it  would  be  seized,  and  borne  back  with 
blood  curdling  growls  for  the  process  to  be  repeated. 
.  .  .  The  game,  it  may  be  said,  was  not  governed  by 
any  foolish  time  limit.  .  .  . 

Suddenly  the  swinging  leg  feinted  towards  the  left, 
and  Binks  dashed  in  that  direction.  Curse  it — he  was 
stung  again.  His  adversary  flew  to  the  right,  and  was 
comfortably  settled  on  the  floor  before  Binks  appeared 
on  the  scene.  However,  his  tail  was  still  up,  as  he 
brought  it  back,  and  he  gave  it  an  extra  furious  bite, 
just  to  show  that  he  would  tolerate  no  uppishness  on 
account  of  this  preliminary  defeat.  .  .  .  Vane  laughed. 
"You  funny  old  man,"  he  said.  He  stopped  and  picked 
up  the  toy,  replacing  it  on  the  mantelpiece.  "That 
ends  the  game  for  to-day,  Binks,  for  I've  got  to  go 
out.  Would  you  like  to  come,  too  ?"  „  The  brown  eyes 
looked  adoringly  up  into  his.  Binks  failed  to  see  why 
the  first  game  after  such  a  long  time  should  be  so 
short;  but — his  not  to  reason  why  on  such  matters. 


MUFTI  99 

Besides  his  master  was  talking  and  Binks  liked  to 
have  his  opinion  asked. 

Once  again  Vane's  eyes  went  back  to  the  photograph 
he  had  been  studying.  It  was  one  of  Margaret — taken 
years  ago.  .  .  .  And  as  he  looked  at  it,  a  pair  of  grey 
eyes,  with  the  glint  of  a  mocking  smile  in  them,  seemed 
to  make  the  photo  a  little  hazy. 

"Come  on,  old  man.  We're  going  to  Balham.  And 
I  need  you  to  support  me/* 

Culman  Terrace  was  not  a  prepossessing  spectacle. 
A  long  straight  road  ran  between  two  rows  of  small 
and  dreary  houses.  Each  house  was  exactly  the  same, 
with  its  tiny  little  plot  of  garden  between  the  front 
door  and  the  gate.  In  some  of  the  plots  there  were  in- 
dications that  the  owner  was  fond  of  gardening;  here 
a  few  sweet  peas  curled  lovingly  up  the  sticks  put  in 
for  them — there  some  tulips  showed  signs  of  nightly 
attention.  But  in  most  the  plot  was  plain  and  drab  as 
the  house — a  dead  thing;  a  thing  without  a  soul.  In- 
dividuality, laughter — aye,  life  itself — seemed  crushed 
in  that  endless  road,  with  its  interminable  rows  of 
houses. 

As  Vane  walked  slowly  up  it  looking  for  No.  14,  the 
sun  was  shining.  For  the  moment  it  seemed  clothed  in 
some  semblance  of  life;  almost  as  if  it  was  stirring 
from  a  long  sleep,  and  muttering  to  itself  that  love 
and  the  glories  of  love  were  abroad  to-day.  .  .  .  And 
then  the  sun  went  behind  a  cloud,  and  everything  was 
grey  and  dead  once  more. 

Vane  pictured  it  to  himself  on  damp  dark  mornings 
in  the  winter — on  evenings  when  the  days  were  short- 
ening, and  the  gas  lamps  shone  through  the  gloom. 


ioo  MUFTI 

He  saw  the  doors  opening,  and  each  one  disgorging 
some  black  coated,  pallid  man,  who  passed  through  the 
gate,  and  then  with  quick  nervous  steps  walked  to- 
wards the  station.  The  8.30  was  their  train;  though 
in  some  very  rare  cases  the  9.3  was  early  enough.  .  .  . 
But  as  a  rule  the  9.3  crowd  did  not  live  in  Culman 
Terrace.  Just  a  few  only,  who  had  come  there  young 
and  eager,  and  had  died  there.  True,  they  caught  the 
9.3,  but  they  were  dead.  And  the  pretty  laughing  girls 
who  had  married  them  when  the  lamp  was  burning 
with  the  divine  fire  of  hope,  had  watched  them  die  .  .  . 
hopelessly,  helplessly.  .  .  .  Love  will  stand  most 
things;  but  the  drab  monotony  of  the  successful  fail- 
ure— the  two  hundred  pound  a  year  man  who  has  to 
keep  up  appearances — tries  it  very  high.  .  .  . 

Some  of  them  turned  into  shrews  and  nagged ;  some 
of  them  ran  to  fat  and  didn't  care;  but  most  of  them 
just  sank  quietly  and  imperceptibly  into  the  dreariness 
and  smallness  of  their  surroundings.  At  rare  intervals 
there  flashed  across  their  horizon  something  of  the 
great  teeming  world  outside;  they  went  to  a  bargain 
sale,  perhaps,  and  saw  the  King  drive  past — or  they 
went  to  the  movies  and  for  a  space  lived  in  the  Land 
of  Make  Believe.  .  .  .  But  the  coils  of  Culman  Ter- 
race had  them  fast,  and  the  excitement  was  only  mo- 
mentary— the  relapse  the  more  complete.  And,  dear 
Heavens,  with  what  high  ideals  they  had  all  started. 
...  It  struck  Vane  as  he  walked  slowly  along  the 
road  that  here,  on  each  side  of  him,  lay  the  Big  Trag- 
edy— bigger  far  than  in  the  vilest  slum.  For  in  the 
slum  they  had  never  known  or  thought  of  anything 
better.  .  .  . 

Odd  curtains  were  pulled  aside  as  he  walked,  and  he 


MUFTI  HU 

felt  conscious  of  people  staring  at  him.  He  pictured 
them  getting  up  from  their  chairs,  and  peering  at  him 
curiously,  wondering  where  he  was  going — what  he 
was  doing — who  he  was.  ...  It  was  the  afternoon's 
excitement — a  wounded  officer  passing  the  house. 

A  familiar  singing  noise  behind  him  made  him  look 
round  and  whistle.  Long  experience  left  no  doubt  as 
to  what  was  happening,  and  when  he  saw  Binks  on 
his  toes,  circling  round  a  gate  on  which  a  cat  was  spit- 
ting angrily,  he  called  "Binks"  sharply  once,  and 
walked  on  again.  It  was  the  greatest  strain  Binks 
was  ever  called  on  to  face,  but  after  a  moment  of  inde- 
cision he  obeyed  as  usual.  Cats  were  his  passion ;  but 
ever  since  he  had  carried  the  Colonel's  wife's  prize 
Persian  on  to  parade  and  deposited  it  at  Vane's  feet 
he  was  discreet  in  the  matter.  The  infuriated  pursuit 
by  the  lady  in  question  on  to  the  parade  ground,  armed 
with  an  umbrella  in  one  hand  and  a  poker  in  the  other, 
had  not  tended  towards  steadiness  in  the  ranks.  In 
fact,  something  like  alarm  and  despondency  had  been 
caused  amongst  all  concerned — especially  Binks.  .  .  . 

"Lord!  old  man,"  muttered  his  master,  "here  we 
are."  Vane  turned  in  at  the  gate  of  No.  14  and  rang 
the  bell.  There  was  an  unpleasant  sinking  feeling  in 
the  pit  of  his  stomach  and  he  nervously  dried  his  left 
hand  on  his  handkerchief. 

"Pray  Heaven  she  doesn't  cry,"  he  said  to  himself 
fervently,  and  at  that  moment  the  door  opened.  A 
pale,  grave-eyed  woman  in  black  confronted  him,  and 
after  a  moment  or  two  she  smiled  very  slightly  and 
held  out  her  hand.  Vane  took  it  awkwardly. 

"It  is  good  of  you  to  take  the  trouble  to  come, 


iQ2  tcc;     ,         ' 

Captain  Vane,"  sne  said  in  a  singularly  sweet  voice. 
"Won't  you  come  inside?" 

He  followed  her  into  the  small  drawing-room  and 
sat  down.  It  was  scrupulously  clean,  and  it  was  more 
than  that — it  was  homely.  ...  It  was  the  room  of  a 
woman  who  loved  beautiful  things,  and  who  had  with 
perfect  taste  banished  every  single  object  which  might 
jar  on  the  fastidious  mind.  It  struck  Vane  that  it  was 
probably  a  unique  room  in  Culman  Terrace;  he  felt 
certain  that  the  rest  of  the  house  was  in  keeping.  .  .  . 

"What  a  charming  room,"  he  said  involuntarily, 
and  it  was  only  when  she  looked  at  him  with  a  little 
lift  of  her  eyebrows  that  he  realised  she  might  regard 
the  remark  as  impertinent.  Why  shouldn't  the  room 
be  charming  ?  .  .  . 

But  Mrs.  Vernoti  quickly  removed  his  embarrass- 
ment. "It's  always  been  a  passion  of  mine — my 
house,"  she  said  quietly.  "And  now — more  than 

ever.  .  .  .  It's  a  duty,  even,  though  a  pleasant  one 

AfteJ*  all,  whatever  may  go  on  outside,  whatever 
wretchedness  worries  one — it's  something  to  have  a 
real  sanctuary  to  come  to.  I  want  the  children  to  feel 
that — so  much.  I  want  them  to  love  the  beautiful 
things  in  life,"  she  went  on  passionately,  "even  though 
they  live  in  these  surroundings."  She  stared  out  of 
the  window  for  a  moment,  and  then  she  turned  with  a 
sudden  quick  movement  to  Vane.  "But,  forgive  me. 
I  don't  know  why  I  should  inflict  my  ideas  on  you. 
Will  you  tell  me  about  Philip?" 

It  was  the  moment  he  had  been  dreading,  and  yet, 
now  that  it  had  come,  he  found  it  easier  than  he  had 
expected.  There  was  something  about  this  quiet, 
steadfast  woman  which  told  him  that  she  would  not 


MUFTI  103 

make  a  scene.  And  so,  gently  and  quietly,  with  his 
eyes  fixed  on  the  empty  fireplace,  he  told  her  the  story. 
There  are  thousands  of  similar  stories  which  could 
be  told  in  the  world  to-day,  but  the  pathos  of  each 
one  is  not  diminished  by  that.  It  was  the  story  of  the 
ordinary  man  who  died  that  others  might  live.  He 
did  not  die  in  the  limelight;  he  just  died  and  was 
buried  and  his  name,  in  due  course,  appeared  in  the 
casualty  list.  .  .  . 

Not  that  Vane  put  it  that  way.  He  painted  his 
picture  with  the  touch  of  glamour;  he  spoke  of  a 
charge,  of  Vernon  cheering  his  men  on,  of  success. 
Into  the  peaceful  drawing-room  he  introduced  the  at- 
mosphere of  glory — unwittingly,  perhaps,  he  fell  back 
on  the  popular  conception  of  war.  And  the  woman, 
who  hung  on  every  word,  silent  and  tearless,  thrilled 
with  the  pride  of  it.  Her  man,  running  at  the  head  of 
others — charging — dying  at  the  moment  of  victory. 
...  It  would  be  something  to  tell  her  two  boys,  when 
their  turn  came  to  face  the  battle  of  life;  something 
which  would  nerve  them  to  the  success  which  her  man 
would  have  won  except  for  .  .  . 

Vane's  voice  died  away.  He  had  finished  his  story, 
he  had  painted  his  picture.  No  suspicion  had  he  given 
that  a  stray  bit  of  shell  had  torn  Vernon  to  bits  long 
after  the  tumult  and  the  shouting  had  ceased.  After 
all,  he  was  dead  ...  it  was  the  living  who  counted. 
No  man  could  have  done  more.  Surely  he  deserved 
the  white  lie  which  pictured  his  death  more  vividly — 
more  grandly.  .  .  . 

"He  died  in  my  arms,"  went  on  Vane  after  a  little 
pause,  "and  his  last  words  were  about  you."  He  told 
her  the  few  simple  sentences,  repeated  to  her  the  words 


104  MUFTI 

which  a  man  will  say  when  the  race  is  run  and  the  tape 
is  reached.  God  knows  they  are  commonplace  enough 
— those  short  disjointed  phrases ;  but  God  knows  also 
that  it  is  the  little  things  which  count,  when  the  heart 
is  breaking.  .  .  . 

And,  then,  having  told  her  once,  perforce  he  had  to 
tell  her  again — just  the  end  bit.  .  .  .  With  the  tears 
pouring  down  her  cheeks  she  listened;  and  though 
each  word  stabbed  her  to  the  heart  afresh — woman- 
like, she  gloried  in  her  pain. 

"  'God  bless  you,  Nell/  and  then  he  died,"  she  said 
softly  to  herself,  repeating  Vane's  last  sentence.  "Ah ! 
but  you  made  good,  my  man.  I  always  knew  you 
would  some  day.  ..." 

It  seemed  to  the  man  staring  into  the  fireplace  that 
he  was  very  near  to  holy  ground ;  and  suddenly  he  rose 
and  strode  to  the  window.  With  eyes  that  were  a 
trifle  dim  he  saw  the  beautifully  kept  little  garden — a 
mass  of  colour;  he  saw  the  name  plate,  "Sea  View," 
on  the  gate,  glinting  bravely  in  the  sun.  Something 
of  the  hopeless  tragedy  of  that  "Some  day"  was  get- 
ting him  by  the  throat.  .  .  .  "Made  good" — dear 
Lord!  and  he  thought  of  his  two  travelling  compan- 
ions in  the  morning.  ... 

For  perhaps  five  minutes  he  stood  there  silently,  and 
then  he  turned  back  into  the  room.  It  had  come  to 
him  quite  clearly  that  Philip  Vernon  had  indeed  made 
good;  that  the  real  tragedy  would  have  been  his  re- 
turn to  "Sea  View."  By  his  death  he  had  justified 
himself;  in  his  life  he  would  have  failed.  .  .  .  For 
he  had  been  branded  with  the  brand  of  Culman  Ter- 
race, and  there  is  no  need  to  say  more.  He  was  re- 
lieved to  see  that  Mrs.  Vernon  was  quite  composed 


MUFTI  105 

again.  He  had  performed  the  first  part  of  his  mission, 
and  now  the  second  required  tackling.  And  something 
warned  him  that  he  would  have  to  tread  very  deli- 
cately; any  suspicion  of  the  word  charity  would  be 
fatal  to  success.  .  .  . 

"About  your  eldest  boy,  Mrs.  Vernon,"  he  began; 
"your  husband  often  spoke  about  him  to  me.  Let  me 
see — what  age  is  he?" 

"Jack  is  fifteen,  Captain  Vane,"  she  said  quietly. 

"Fifteen!  Couldn't  be  better.  Now  I  was  won- 
dering, Mrs.  Vernon,  whether  you  would  care  in  a 
year  or  two,  to  let  him  come  to  me.  I'm  in  a  very  big 
business  in  the  City,  and  my  boss  is  always  on  the 
look  out  for  bright  boys.  I  know  your  boy  is  clever 
— but  so  much  depends  on  getting  a  good  start  these 
days.  Of  course  he'd  be  judged  entirely  on  his  merits 
.  .  .  but  he'd  start  with  a  real  good  chance  of  making 
the  best  of  his  talents."  He  looked  quickly  at  her,  and 
found  she  was  watching  him  gravely.  "It's  part  of 
the  privilege  of  the  brotherhood  of  the  trenches,  Mrs. 
Vernon,  to  be  allowed  to  make  such  an  offer.  .  .  .  ' 
He  was  finding  it  easier  now.  "To  do  anything  for 
your  husband's  son  would  be  a  real  pleasure ;  though,  I 
need  hardly  say  that,  beyond  giving  him  the  chance,  I 
could  offer  nothing  else.  It  would  be  up  to  him  to 
make  good." 

For  a  while  Mrs.  Vernon  was  silent,  and  he  flashed 
a  quick  look  at  her.  Had  he  put  it  well  ?  Had  he  kept 
every  suspicion  of  patronage  out  of  his  offer? 

"Thank  you  very  much,  Captain  Vane,"  she  said 
at  last,  "for  your  offer.  I  hope  you  won't  think  me 
ungrateful  when  I  refuse.  Four  years  ago  I  think  I 
should  have  accepted  it  with  gratitude ;  but  now  .  .  . " 


106  MUFTI 

She  shook  her  head.  "A  lot  of  the  shams  have  gone ; 
we  see  clearer — some  of  us.  ...  And  I  tell  you  that 
I  would  not  willingly  condemn  Jack  to  such  a  life  as 
his  father  led — even  if  I  was  penniless.  Wait — let  me 
finish" — as  Vane  started  to  speak — "Of  course  with 
you  he  would  have  better  chances  than  his  father  had 
before  him — but  the  city  life  would  kill  him — even 
as  it  has  killed  thousands  of  others.  ...  I  wonder  if 
you  can  realise  the  hideous  tragedy  of  the  poor  clerk. 
He  can't  strike  for  higher  wages,  like  the  British 
working  man.  He  just  goes  on  and  on  and  suffers  in 
silence.  ...  In  Jack's  case  it  would  be  the  same.  .  .  . 
What — four  hundred  a  year?"  She  laughed  a  little 
scornfully.  "It's  not  much  to  bring  up  a  family  on, 
Captain  Vane.  .  .  .  Four  hundred  a  year,  and  Acacia 
Avenue — two  streets  up.  .  .  .  Acacia  Avenue  doesn't 
call  on  Culman  Terrace,  you  know.  ..."  Again  she 
laughed.  "No,  Jack  isn't  made  for  that  sort  of  life, 
thank  God.  He  aches  for  the  big  spaces  in  his  boyish 
way,  for  the  lands  where  there  are  big  things  to  be 
done.  .  .  .  And  I've  encouraged  him.  There'll  be 
nobody  there  to  sneer  if  his  clothes  get  frayed  and 
he  can't  buy  any  more — because  of  the  children's  boots. 
There'll  be  no  appearances  to  keep  up  there.  And  I'd 
a  thousand  times  rather  that  Jack  should  stand — or 
fall — in  such  surroundings,  than  that  he  should  sink 
slowly  .  .  .  here." 

She  paused  for  a  moment,  and  then  stood  up  and 
faced  him.  "It's  emigration,  Captain  Vane,  that  I 
and  people  like  me  have  got  to  turn  to  for  our  boys. 
For  ourselves — it  doesn't  much  matter ;  we've  had  our 
day,  and  I  don't  want  you  to  think  the  sun  never 
shined  on  us,  for  it  did.  .  .  .  Just  wonderfully  at 


MUFTI  107 

times.  .  .  ."  She  gave  a  quick  sigh.  "Only  now 
.  .  .  things  are  different.  .  .  .  And  up  till  now,  Cul- 
man  Terrace  hasn't  considered  emigration  quite  the 
thing.  It's  not  quite  respectable.  .  .  .  Only  aristocratic 
ne'er-do-wells  and  quite  impossibly  common  men  emi- 
grate. It's  a  confession  of  failure.  .  .  .  And  so  we've 
continued  to  swell  the  ranks  of  the  most  pitiful  class 
in  the  country — the  gentleman  and  his  family  with 
the  small  fixed  income.  The  working  man  regards 
him  with  suspicion  because  he  wears  a  black  coat — or, 
with  contempt  because  he  doesn't  strike;  the  Govern- 
ment completely  ignores  him  because  they  know  he's 
too  much  a  slave  to  convention  to  do  anything  but 
vote  along  so-called  gentlemanly  lines.  What  do  you 
suppose  would  be  the  result  if  the  enormous  body  of 
middle  class  slaves  in  this  country  did,  one  day,  com- 
bine and  refuse  to  be  bled  by  every  other  class?  We're 
bled  by  the  people  on  top  for  their  own  advantage; 
and  then  we're  bled  again  for  the  advantage  of  the 
dear  workman.  ..."  She  laughed  a  little.  "Forgive 
me  talking  so  much ;  but  not  for  Jack,  thank  you." 

Vane  bowed.  "Mrs.  Vernon,  I  think  you're  per- 
fectly right — and  I  wish  you  and  him  the  very  best 
of  luck."  He  shook  hands  gravely  and  a  few  moments 
later  he  was  walking  back  towards  the  station  with 
Binks  trotting  sedately  at  his  heels.  In  all  probability 
he  would  never  see  Mrs.  Vernon  again;  war  and  its 
aftermath  had  brought  their  paths  together  for  a 
space,  and  now  they  were  diverging  again.  But  that 
short  space  had  been  enough  to  make  him  feel  ashamed 
and  proud.  Ashamed  of  himself  for  his  cynicism  and 
irritability;  proud  of  the  woman  who,  with  her  faith 
clear  and  steadfast,  could  face  the  future  without  fal- 


io8  MUFTI 

taring.  Her  man's  job  had  been  laid  upon  her;  she 
would  never  fail  him  till  the  time  came  for  her  to 
join  him.  .  .  .  And  by  then  she  would  have  earned 
her  reward — rest.  .  .  .  She  will  deserve  every  moment 
of  it.  .  .  .  Surely  the  Lord  of  True  Values  will  not 
grudge  it  to  her.  .  .  . 

And  though  he  had  said  nothing  to  her  of  his 
thoughts — men  when  deeply  moved  are  so  hopelessly 
inarticulate — somehow  he  wished  going  up  in  the  train 
that  he  had.  Falteringly,  crudely,  he  might  have  said 
something,  which  would  have  helped  her.  If  only  a 
man  had  the  power  of  expressing  sympathy  without 
words.  He  needn't  have  worried,  had  he  known  .  .  . 
and  Binks,  who  was  looking  out  of  the  window  with 
interest,  could  not  tell  him.  Anyway,  it  was  not  any- 
thing to  make  a  song  or  dance  about — putting  a  cold 
wet  nose  into  a  hand  that  hung  down  from  a  chair, 
and  letting  it  rest  there — just  for  a  while.  .  .  .  But  it 
was  not  the  first  time,  and  it  will  not  be  the  last,  that 
the  Peace  that  passeth  all  understanding  has  been 
brought  to  the  human  heart  by  the  touch  of  a  dog. 
.  .  .  Binks  had  justified  his  inclusion  in  the  trip.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  days  that  followed  passed  pleasantly  enough. 
Gradually  the  jaundice  was  disappearing,  and 
Vane  was  becoming  normal  again.  The  war  seemed 
very  far  away  from  Rum  fold;  though  occasionally  a 
newcomer  brought  some  bit  of  intimate  gossip  about 
Crucifix  Alley  or  Hell  Fire  Corner,  or  one  of  the  little 
places  not  shown  on  any  map,  which  mean  so  much 
more  to  the  actual  fighting  man  than  all  the  big  towns 
rolled  together.  Pipes  would  come  out  and  men  would 
draw  together  in  the  smoking-room — while  in  imagi- 
nation the  green  flares  would  go  hissing  up  again,  sil- 
houetted against  the  velvet  of  the  night.  But  for  the 
most  part  the  war  had  ceased  to  count ;  tennis  and  golf, 
with  a  visit  now  and  then  to  London,  filled  the  days. 

Vane's  arm  prevented  him  playing  any  game,  but 
the  country  around  was  admirably  suited  for  walking, 
and  most  afternoons  he  found  himself  strolling  out 
past  the  lodge  gates  for  a  ramble.  Sometimes  one  of 
the  other  officers  accompanied  him;  but  more  often  he 
went  alone.  And  on  those  long  lonely  walks  he  found 
himself  obeying  Margaret's  injunctions,  given  to  him 
at  Paris  Plage— "Go  and  find  out.  ..." 

In  common  with  many  others  who  were  beginning, 
almost  unconsciously,  to  think  for  the  first  time,  he 
found  considerable  difficulty  in  knowing  where  to  start 
the  quest.  Vane  was  no  fool,  but  in  days  gone  by  he 

109 


no  MUFTI 

had  accepted  a  certain  order  of  things  as  being  the  only 
possible  order — just  as  England  had  been  the  only 
possible  country.  But  now  it  seemed  to  him  that  if 
England  was  to  remain  the  only  possible  country  an 
alteration  would  have  to  be  made  in  the  order.  Be- 
fore, any  danger  to  her  supremacy  had  come  from 
without — now  the  trouble  lay  within. 

Each  day,  alongside  the  war  news,  he  read  of  strikes 
and  rumours  of  strikes,  and  when  he  came  to  ask 
himself  the  reason  why,  he  was  appalled  at  his  own 
ignorance.  Something  was  wrong  somewhere;  some- 
thing which  would  have  to  be  put  right.  And  the 
trouble  was  that  it  did  not  seem  a  matter  of  great  ease 
to  put  it  right.  He  felt  that  the  glib  phrases  about 
Capital  and  Labour  pulling  together,  about  better  re- 
lations between  employers  and  men,  about  standing 
shoulder  to  shoulder,  failed  to  hit  the  point.  They 
were  rather  like  offering  a  hungry  lion  a  halfpenny 
bun.  They  could  always  be  relied  on  to  raise  a  cheer 
from  a  political  platform  provided  the  right  audience 
was  present ;  but  it  seemed  doubtful  whether  even  such 
a  far-reaching  result  as  that  was  quite  enough. 

At  times  his  natural  indolence  made  him  laugh  in- 
wardly. "What  on  earth  is  the  use?"  he  would  mut- 
ter, throwing  pebbles  into  the  pond  below  him.  "What 
has  to  be — has  to  be."  It  was  a  favourite  haunt  of 
his — that  pond;  in  the  heart  of  a  wood,  with  a  little 
waterfall  trickling  over  some  rounded  stones  and 
falling  musically  into  the  pond  a  few  feet  below.  The 
afternoon  sun  used  to  shine  through  the  branches  of 
some  great  beech  trees,  and  the  dense  undergrowth 
around  screened  him  from  the  observation  of  any 
chance  passer  by  walking  along  the  path  behind.  .  .  . 


MUFTI  in 

"You  can't  do  anything/'  the  mocking  voice  would 
continue.  "So  why  worry?*' 

But  the  mental  jaundice  was  passing — and  the  natu- 
ral belief  of  man  in  himself  was  coming  back.  He 
felt  the  gas  expert  had  been  right,  even  though  he  had 
died.  And  so  Vane  became  a  reader  of  books  of  a 
type  which  had  not  formerly  been  part  of  his  daily 
programme.  He  was  groping  towards  knowledge,  and 
he  deliberately  sought  every  help  for  the  way.  He 
tried  some  of  H.  G.  Wells's  to  start  with.  .  .  .  Pre- 
viously he  had  read  the  "First  Men  in  the  Moon,"  be- 
cause he'd  been  told  it  was  exciting ;  and  "Ann  Veron- 
ica," because  he  had  heard  it  was  immoral.  Now  he 
tried  some  of  the  others. 

He  was  engaged  thus  when  Joan  Devereux  found 
him  one  afternoon  in  his  favourite  haunt.  She  had 
stumbled  on  his  hiding  place  by  mistake,  and  her  first 
instinct  was  to  retire  as  quickly  as  she  had  come. 
Since  their  first  meeting,  their  conversation,  on  the 
rare  occasions  they  had  met  at  Rum  fold  Hall,  had 
been  confined  to  the  most  commonplace  remarks,  and 
those  always  in  the  presence  of  someone  else.  Any 
possibility  of  a  tete-a-tete  she  had  avoided;  and  the 
necessary  mental  effort  had  naturally  caused  her  to 
think  all  the  more  about  him.  Now,  just  as  she  halted 
in  her  tracks  and  prepared  to  back  out  through  the 
undergrowth,  Vane  looked  up  at  her  with  his  slow  lazy 
smile. 

"Discovered!"  he  remarked  scrambling  to  his  feet, 
and  saluting  her.  "Joan,  you  have  come  in  the  nick  of 
time." 

"I  would  prefer  you  not  to  call  me  Joan,"  she  an- 
swered coldly.  "And  after  your  abominable  rudeness 


H2  MUFTI 

last  time  we  were  alone  together,  I  don't  want  to  talk 
to  you  at  all." 

"I  suppose  I  was  rather  rude,"  answered  Vane  re- 
flectively. 'Though,  if  it's  any  comfort  to  you  to 
know,  I  was  much  ruder  to  two  men  going  up  in  the 
train  a  few  days  later.  ..." 

"It  isn't  of  the  slightest  interest  to  me,"  she  re- 
turned, "whom  you're  rude  to,  or  how  you  spend  your 
spare  time.  The  habits  of  an  ill-mannered  boor  are  not 
of  great  importance,  are  they?"  She  turned  her  back 
on  him,  and  parted  the  undergrowth  with  her  hands, 
preparatory  to  leaving. 

"Don't  go."  His  voice  close  behind  her  made  her 
paus^  "I  need  you — officially." 

She  looked  round  at  him,  and  despite  herself  the 
corners  of  her  lips  began  to  twitch.  "You  really  are 
the  most  impossible  person,"  she  remarked.  "What 
do  you  need  me  for?" 

He  stepped  back  to  his  usual  seat,  and  pointed  to  a 
small  mossy  bank  beside  him.  "Come  and  sit  down 
there,  and  let's  think.  ..." 

After  a  moment's  hesitation  she  did  as  he  said. 

"It's  rather  a  knotty  problem,  isn't  it?"  he  con- 
tinued after  a  moment.  "I  might  want  you  to  flirt 
with  me  in  order  to  avert  my  suicide  in  the  pond 
through  boredom.  ..." 

"You  may  want,"  she  retorted. 

"But  it's  in  the  official  programme?" 

"You're  not  on  the  official  list,"  she  flashed  back. 

"Worse  and  worse,"  he  murmured.  "I  begin  to 
despair.  However,  I  won't  try  you  as  highly  as  that. 
I  will  just  ask  you  a  plain,  honest  question.  And  I 
rely  on  you  to  answer  me  truthfully.  ...  Do  you 


MUFTI  113 

think  I  should  be  a  more  attractive  being ;  do  you  think 
I  should  be  more  capable  of  grappling  with  those  great 
problems  which — ah — surround  us  on  all  sides,  if  I 
could  dissect  rats — or  even  mice?"  he  added  thought- 
fully after  a  pause. 

The  girl  looked  at  him  in  amazement.  "Are  you 
trying  to  be  funny?"  she  asked  at  length. 

"Heaven  forbid !"  he  said  fervently.  "I  was  never 
more  serious  in  my  life.  But,  in  that  book," — he 
pointed  to  one  lying  between  them — "everybody,  who 
is  anybody,  dissects  rodents." 

She  picked  up  the  book  and  gazed  at  the  title.  "But 
this  is  the  book  everybody's  talking  about,"  she  said. 

"I  am  nothing  if  not  fashionable,"  returned  Vane. 

"And  do  they  dissect  rats  in  it?" 

"Don't  misunderstand  me,  and  take  too  gloomy  a 
view  of  the  situation,"  said  Vane  reassuringly.  "They 
do  other  things  besides.  .  .  .  Brilliant  things,  all  most 
brilliantly  written  about;  clever  things,  all  most  clev- 
erly told.  But  whenever  there's  a  sort  of  gap  to  be 
filled  up,  a  mauvais  quart  d'heure  after  luncheon,  the 
hero  runs  off  and  deals  with  a  mouse.  And  even  if 
he  doesn't,  you  know  he  could.  .  .  .  And  the  heroine ! 
It's  a  fundamental  part  of  all  their  educations,  their 
extraordinary  brilliance  seems  to  rest  on  it  as  a  founda- 
tion." 

She  looked  at  him  curiously.  "I'm  not  particularly 
dense,"  she  said  after  a  while,  "but  I  must  admit 
you  rather  defeat  me." 

"Joan,"  answered  Vane  seriously,  and  she  made  no 
protest  this  time  at  the  use  of  her  name,  "I  rather 
defeat  myself.  In  the  old  days  I  never  thought  at  all 
— but  if  I  ever  did  I  thought  straight.  Now  my  mind 


H4  MUFTI 

is  running  round  in  circles.  I  chase  after  it ;  think  I'm 
off  at  last — and  then  find  myself  back  where  I  started. 
That's  why  I've  put  up  the  S.O.S.  and  am  trying  to 
get  help."  He  laid  his  hand  on  the  book  beside  him. 

"Are  you  reading  all  the  highbrows  ?"  she  asked. 

"Most  of  'em,"  he  answered.  "In  the  first  place 
they're  all  so  amazingly  well  written  that  it's  a  pleasure 
to  read  them  for  that  alone;  and,  secondly — I'm  hop- 
ing .  .  .  still  hoping.  ..."  He  took  out  his  cigarette 
case  and  offered  it  to  her.  "I  feel  that  it's  I  who  am 
wrong — not  they — that  it's  my  lack  of  education  that 
huffs  me.  I  expect  it's  those  damned  rats.  ..." 

Joan  laughed,  and  lit  a  cigarette.  "They're  all  so 
frightfully  clever,  Joan,"  went  on  Vane  blowing  out  a 
cloud  of  smoke.  "They  seem  to  me  to  be  discussing 
the  world  of  men  and  women  around  them  from  the 
pure  cold  light  of  reason.  .  .  .  Brain  rules  them,  and 
they  make  brain  rule  their  creations.  Instead  of  stom- 
ach— stomach  really  rules  the  world,  you  know."  For 
a  while  they  sat  in  silence,  watching  a  dragon-fly  dart- 
ing like  a  streak  of  light  over  the  pond  below  therm. 

"I  wouldn't  bother  if  I  were  you,"  said  the  girl 
after  a  while.  "After  all,  if  one  is  happy  oneself,  and 
tries  to  make  other  people  happy  too,  it's  bound  to 
help  things  along  a  bit,  isn't  it?  It  strikes  me  that 
whatever  people  write,  or  say,  everything  will  go  on 
much  the  same.  Besides — it's  so  impertinent.  You 
don't  want  to  be  reconstructed ;  nor  does  anybody  else. 
So  why  worry?" 

"But,  my  dear  girl,"  said  Vane  feebly,  "don't  you 
think  one  ought.  ..." 

"No,  I  don't,"  she  interrupted.  "You  listen  to  me 
for  a  bit,  my  friend;  and  you  can  take  it  or  leave  it, 


MUFTI  115 

just  as  you  like.  It  strikes  me  you're  a  great  deal  too 
occupied  about  other  people,  and  you  don't  pay  suffi- 
cient attention  to  yourself.  You've  got  to  live  your 
own  life — not  the  man's  next  door.  And  you'll  do 
most  good  by  living  that  life,  as  you  want  to  live  it. 
If  you  really  want  to  reform  other  people — well  go 
and  do  it,  and  get  a  thick  ear.  .  .  .  It's  part  of  your 
job.  But  if  you  don't  want  to,  there's  no  earthly  use 
trying  to  pretend  you  do;  you're  merely  a  hypocrite. 
There's  no  good  telling  me  that  everybody  can  be 
lumped  into  classes  and  catered  for  like  so  many  ma- 
chines. We're  all  sorts  and  conditions,  and  I  suppose 
you'd  say  I  was  one  of  the  supremely  selfish  sort.  In 
fact,  you  have  said  so,"  she  said  defiantly. 

"All  right — we'll  leave  it  at  that,"  she  went  on  be- 
fore he  could  speak.  "But  I'm  happy — and  I'm  sin- 
cere. I  do  the  most  awful  things  at  times — because 
I  like  doing  them.  I  should  loathe  to  be  a  nurse,  and 
the  W.A.A.C.  uniform  makes  me  look  a  fright  I 
may  not  realise  the  horrors  over  the  water;  I  don't 
want  to.  And  do  you  suppose  half  these  woman  who 
talk  about  them  so  glibly  do  either?  ...  Of  course 
they  don't;  they're  just  posing.  They  pretend  it's 
awful  and  horrible  to  dance  and  play  the  fool;  and 
all  the  while  their  teeth  are  chattering  with  envy  and 
malice.  ..." 

"We  seem,"  remarked  Vane,  taking  advantage  of 
a  temporary  lull  in  the  flood,  "to  have  arrived  at  rather 
a  personal  discussion." 

"Of  course  we  have,"  she  took  him  up.  "Isn't  it  I 
— I — I  everywhere  ?  Only  a  lot  of  people  aren't  suffi- 
ciently truthful  to  admit  it.  It's  Number  One  first  all 
the  way  through,  right  from  the  people  up  at  the  top 


n6  MUFTI 

down  to  the  poor  brutes  in  the  slums.  All  the  won- 
derful schemes  of  reform  are  for  the  glory  of  the 
schemer  first,  with  the  happy  recipients  amongst  the 
also  rans."  She  paused  a  moment,  and  a  sudden  ten- 
der look  came  into  her  eyes.  "Of  course  there  are 
exceptions.  There's  a  boy  I  know — he's  a  cousin  of 
mine — with  weak  lungs.  Rejected  for  the  Army  three 
times  as  totally  unfit.  For  the  last  four  years  he's 
been  living  in  a  slum  off  Whitechapel  and  the  people 
there  love  him.  .  .  .  He  just  walks  in  and  planks 
down  a  pork  chop  in  the  back  room;  or  a  bottle  of 
Bass,  or  something  and  has  a  talk  to  the  woman  .  .  . 
he's  dying  .  .  .  but  he's  dying  happy.  ...  I  couldn't 
do  that;  no  more  could  you.  .  .  .  We  should  loathe 
it,  and  so  we  should  be  fools  to  attempt  it.  ..." 

"I  wonder,"  said  Vane  slowly.  ...  "I  wonder." 

"No,  you  don't,"  she  cried.  "You  don't  wonder. 
.  .  .  You  know  I'm  right.  ...  If  you  loved  such  a 
life  you'd  just  do  it.  ...  And  you'd  succeed.  The 
people  who  fail  are  the  people  who  do  things  from  a 
sense  of  duty." 

"What  a  very  dangerous  doctrine,"  smiled  Vane. 

"Perhaps  it  is,"  she  answered.  "Perhaps  in  my 
own  way  I'm  groping  too;  perhaps,"  and  she  laughed 
a  little  apologetically,  "I've  fitted  my  religion  to  my 
life.  At  any  rate  it's  better  than  fitting  other  people's 
lives  to  one's  religion.  But  it  seems  to  me  that  God," 
she  hesitated,  as  if  at  a  loss  for  words  to  express  her- 
self— "that  God — and  one's  surroundings — make  one 
what  one  is.  ...  And  unless  one  is  very  certain  that 
either  God  or  the  surroundings  are  wrong,  it's  asking 
for  trouble  to  go  off  one's  own  beaten  track.  ...  I 


MUFTI  117 

suppose  you  think  I'm  talking  out  of  my  turn."  She 
turned  and  faced  him  with  a  slight  smile. 

"On  the  contrary,"  answered  Vane,  "you  have  in- 
terested me  immensely.  But  you've  dodged  the  one 
vital  question — for  me,  at  any  rate.  What  is  the 
beaten  track?  Just  at  present  I  can't  find  it?" 

"You'll  not  find  it  any  easier  by  looking  for  it  too 
hard,"  she  said  thoughtfully.  "I'm  certain  of  that. 
.  .  .  It'll  come  in  a  flash  to  you,  when  you  least  ex- 
pect it,  and  you'll  see  it  as  clear  as  daylight." 

For  a  while  they  sat  in  silence,  both  busy  with  their 
own  thoughts.  Then  the  girl  laughed  musically. 

"To  think  of  me,"  she  gurgled,  "holding  forth  like 
this.  ...  Why,  I've  never  done  such  a  thing  before 
that  I  can  remember."  Then  of  a  sudden  she  became 
serious.  The  big  grey  eyes  looked  steadily,  almost 
curiously,  at  the  face  of  the  man  beside  her.  "I  won- 
der why,"  she  whispered  almost  below  her  breath. 
"You've  been  most  poisonously  rude  to  me,  and  yet 
.  .  .  and  yet  here  am  I  talking  to  you  as  I've  never 
talked  to  any  other  man  in  my  life." 

Vane  stared  at  the  pool  for  a  few  moments  before 
he  answered.  He  was  becoming  uncomfortably  aware 
that  grey  eyes  with  a  certain  type  of  chin  were  attrac- 
tive— very  attractive.  But  his  tone  was  light  when  he 
spoke. 

"A  quarrel  is  always  a  sound  foundation."  He 
looked  up  at  her  with  a  smile,  but  her  eyes  still  held 
that  half  speculative  look.  .  .  . 

"I  wonder  what  you  would  have  thought  of  me," 
she  continued  after  a  moment,  "if  you'd  met  me  be- 
fore the  war.  ,  ." 


n8  MUFTI 

"Why,  that  children  of  fifteen  should  be  in  bed  by 
ten,"  he  mocked. 

"Yes,  but  supposing  I  was  what  I  am  now,  and 
you  were  what  you  were  then — and  you  weren't  filled 
with  all  these  ideas  about  duty  and  futures  and 
things.  .  .  ." 

"You  would  have  added  another  scalp  to  the  collec- 
tion, I  expect,"  said  Vane  drily. 

They  both  laughed,  then  she  bent  slightly  towards 
him.  "Will  you  forgive  me  for  what  I  said  about — 
about  that  woman  you  were  going  to  see  ?" 

"Why — sure,"  answered  Vane.  "I  guess  you  owed 
me  one." 

Joan  laughed.  "We'll  wash  the  first  lesson  out. 
Except,  of  course,  for  that  one  thing  you  said.  I 
mean  about — the  other.  ...  I'd  just  hate  to  forget 
that  there's  a  wedding  coming  off,  and  do  anything 
that  would  make  it  awkward  for  me  to  be  asked  to 
the  church.  ..." 

"You  little  devil,  Joan,"  said  Vane  softly,  "you 
little  devil." 

She  laughed  lightly  and  sprang  to  her  feet.  "I  must 
be  going,"  she  said.  "At  least  three  Colonials  are 
waiting  for  my  ministrations."  She  stood  looking 
down  at  him.  .  .  .  "Are  you  going  to  walk  back 
with  me,  or  to  resume  your  study  of  rodents?" 

Vane  slipped  the  book  in  his  pocket.  "I'm  afraid," 
he  remarked,  "that  I  should  not  be  able  to  bring  that 
undivided  attention  to  bear  on  the  subject  which  is  so 
essential  for  my  education.  Besides — perhaps  you'll 
have  a  few  minutes  to  spare  after  you  have  dealt  with 
the  Colonials.  ..."  He  parted  the  branches  for  her. 

"My  dear  man,"  she  retorted,  "you've  had  far  more 


MUFTI  119 

than  your  fair  official  share  already.  .  .  ."  She 
scrambled  on  to  the  path  and  Vane  fell  into  step  be- 
side her.  "And  don't  forget  that  you've  only  just  been 
forgiven.  ..." 

"Which  makes  it  all  the  more  essential  for  me  to 
have  continual  evidence  of  the  fact,"  retorted  Vane. 

"It  strikes  me,"  she  looked  at  him  suddenly,  "that 
you're  not  quite  as  serious  as  you  make  out.  You've 
got  all  the  makings  of  a  very  pretty  frivoller  in  you 
anyway." 

"I  bow  to  your  superior  judgment,"  said  Vane 
gravely.  "But  I've  been  commissioned  to — er — go 
and  find  myself,  so  to  speak,  by  one  who  must  be 
obeyed.  And  in  the  intervals  between  periods  of  cold 
asceticism  when  I  deal  with  the  highbrows,  and  other 
periods  when  I  tackle  subjects  of  national  importance 
first  hand,  I  feel  that  I  shall  want  relaxation.  ..." 

"And  so  you  think  you'd  like  me  to  fill  the  role  of 
comic  relief,"  she  said  sweetly.  "Thanks  a  thousand 
times  for  the  charming  compliment." 

"It  doesn't  sound  very  flattering  put  that  way,  I 
must  admit,"  conceded  Vane  with  a  grin.  "And  yet 
the  pleasures  of  life  fill  a  very  important  part.  I  want 
to  find  myself  in  them  too.  ..." 

"I'm  glad  to  see  traces  of  comparative  sanity  return- 
ing," she  said,  as  they  turned  into  the  Lodge  Gates. 
"Do  you  think  it's  safe  to  trust  yourself  to  such  an 
abandoned  character  as  I  am?  What  would  She  who 
must  be  obeyed  say?" 

She  looked  at  him  mockingly,  and  involuntarily 
Vane  frowned  slightly.  At  the  moment  he  felt  singu- 
larly unwilling  to  be  reminded  of  Margaret.  And  he 
was  far  too  old  a  stager  not  to  realise  that  he  was 


120  MUFTI 

heading  directly  for  waters  which,  though  they  ran 
amongst  charming  scenery,  contained  quite  a  number 
of  hidden  rocks. 

She  saw  the  sudden  frown,  and  laughed  very  gently. 
"Poor  young  man/'  she  murmured;  "poor  serious 
young  man.  Dare  you  risk  it?" 

Then  Vane  laughed  too.  They  had  come  to  the 
lawn,  and  her  three  Colonial  patients  were  approach- 
ing. "Put  that  way,"  he  said,  "I  feel  that  it  is  my 
bounden  duty  to  take  a  prolonged  course  of  those 
pleasures." 

"Splendid,"  she  cried,  and  her  eyes  were  dancing 
merrily.  "Come  over  and  lunch  to-morrow.  You 
can  have  Father  and  Aunt  Jane  first.  You'll  like 
Aunt  Jane,  she's  as  deaf  as  a  post  and  very  blood- 
thirsty— and  then  you  can  begin  the  course  afterwards. 
One  o'clock,  and  it's  about  half  an  hour's  walk.  ..." 

With  a  nod  she  turned  and  left  him.  And  if  those 
of  her  friends  who  knew  Joan  Devereux  well  had  seen 
the  look  in  her  eyes  as  she  turned  to  her  three  Can- 
adians, they  would  have  hazarded  a  guess  that  there 
was  trouble  brewing.  They  would  further  have  haz- 
arded a  second  guess  as  to  the  form  it  was  likely  to 
take.  And  both  guesses  would  have  been  right.  A 
young  man,  remarked  Joan  to  herself,  who  would  be 
all  the  better  for  a  fall ;  a  young  man  who  seemed  very 
much  too  sure  of  himself.  Joan  Devereux  was  quite 
capable  of  dealing  with  such  cases  as  they  deserved, 
and  she  was  a  young  woman  of  much  experience. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

IT  was  the  following  morning  that  Vane  received  a 
second  letter  from  Margaret.  He  had  written  her 
once — a  letter  in  which  he  had  made  no  allusion  to 
their  last  meeting — and  she  had  answered  it.  Cases 
were  still  pouring  in  and  she  was  very  busy.  When 
she  did  have  a  moment  to  herself  she  was  generally  so 
tired  that  she  lay  down  and  went  to  sleep.  It  was  the 
letter  of  a  girl  obsessed  with  her  work  to  the  exclusion 
of  all  outside  things. 

Of  course  he  admired  her  for  it — admired  her  in- 
tensely. It  was  so  characteristic  of  her,  and  she  had 
such  a  wonderful  character.  But — somehow  ...  he 
had  wished  for  something  a  little  more  basely  material. 
And  so  with  this  second  one.  He  read  it  through  once 
at  breakfast,  and  then,  with  a  thoughtful  look  in  his 
eyes,  he  took  it  with  him  to  a  chair  on  the  big  verandah 
which  ran  along  the  whole  of  the  front  of  Rum  fold 
Hall.  The  awning  above  it  had  been  specially  erected 
for  the  benefit  of  the  patients  and  Vane  pulled  one  of 
the  lounge  chairs  back  from  the  stone  balustrade,  so 
that  his  face  was  shaded  from  the  sun.  It  was  a  favour- 
ite spot  of  his,  and  now,  with  Margaret's  letter  out- 
spread beside  him,  and  his  pipe  held  between  his  knees, 
he  commenced  to  fill  the  bowl.  He  was  becoming  fairly 
quick  at  the  operation,  but  long  after  it  was  well  alight 
he  was  still  staring  at  the  misty  line  of  distant  hills. 

121 


122  MUFTI 

Away,  out  there,  beyond,  the  thing  called  war  was  in 
full  swing — the  game  was  at  its  height.  And  the  let- 
ter beside  him  had  taken  him  back  in  spirit.  .  .  .  After 
a  while  he  picked  it  up  again  and  commenced  to  re- 
read the  firm,  clear  handwriting.  .  .  . 

No.  24,  STATIONARY  HOSPITAL. 

MONDAY. 

Derek,  dear,  I've  been  moved  as  you  see  from  No. 
13.  I'm  with  the  men  now,  and  though  I  hated  going 
at  first — yet,  now,  I  think  I  almost  prefer  it.  With 
the  officers  there  must  always  be  a  little  constraint — 
at  least,  I  have  never  been  able  to  get  rid  of  the  feeling. 
Perhaps  with  more  experience  it  would  vanish — je*ne 
sais  pas  .  .  .  but  with  the  men  it's  never  there. 
They're  just  children,  Derek,  just  dear  helpless  kid- 
dies; and  so  wonderfully  grateful  for  any  little  thing 
one  does.  Never  a  whimper;  never  the  slightest  im- 
patience. .  .  .  They're  just  wonderful.  One  expects 
it  from  the  officers;  but  somehow  it  strikes  one  with 
a  feeling  almost  of  surprise  when  one  meets  it  in  the 
men.  There's  one  of  them,  a  boy  of  eighteen,  with 
both  his  legs  blown  off  above  the  knee.  He  just  lies 
there  silently,  trying  to  understand.  He  never  wor- 
ries or  frets — but  there's  a  look  in  his  eyes — a  puzzled, 
questioning  look  sometimes — which  asks  as  clearly  as 
if  he  spoke — "Why  has  this  thing  happened  to  me?" 
He  comes  from  a  little  Devonshire  fishing  village,  he 
tells  me ;  and  until  the  war  he'd  never  been  away  from 
it!  Can  you  imagine  the  pitiful,  chaotic,  helplessness 
in  his  mind?  Oh!  doesn't  it  all  seem  too  insensately 
brutal?  .  .  .  It's  not  even  as  if  there  was  any  sport 
in  it ;  it's  all  so  utterly  ugly  and  bestial.  .  .  .  One  feels 


MUFTI  123 

so  helpless,  so  bewildered,  and  the  look  in  some  of 
their  eyes  makes  one  want  to  scream  with  the  horror 
of  it.  ... 

But,  old  man,  the  object  of  this  letter  is  not  to  inflict 
on  you  my  ideas  on  war.  It  is  in  a  sense  a  continua- 
tion, and  a  development,  of  our  talk  on  the  beach  at 
Paris  Plage.  I  have  been  thinking  a  good  deal  lately 
about  that  conversation,  and  now  that  I  have  almost 
definitely  made  up  my  mind  as  to  what  I  propose  to  do 
myself  after  the  war,  I  consider  it  only  fair  to  let  you 
know.  I  said  to  you  then  that  perhaps  my  job  might 
only  be  to  help  you  to  fulfil  your  own  destiny,  and 
nothing  which  I  have  decided  since  alters  that  in  any 
way.  If  you  still  want  me  after  the  war — if  we  find 
that  neither  of  us  has  made  a  mistake — I  can  still  help 
you,  Derek,  I  hope.  But,  my  dear,  it  won't  be  quite  a 
passive  help,  if  you  understand  what  I  mean.  I've  got 
to  be  up  and  doing  myself — actively ;  to  be  merely  any 
man's  echo — his  complement — however  much  I  loved 
him,  would  not  be  enough.  I've  come  to  that,  you  see. 

And  so  I've  decided — not  quite  definitely  as  I  said, 
but  almost  so — to  read  for  Medicine.  I'm  a  little  old, 
perhaps,  though  I'm  only  twenty-four :  but  these  years 
in  France  have  at  any  rate  not  been  wasted.  The  ques- 
tion of  money  does  not  come  in  luckily,  and  the  work 
attracts  me  immensely.  Somehow  I  feel  that  I  might 
be  helping  to  repair  a  tiny  bit  of  the  hideous  destruc- 
tion and  mutilation  which  we're  suffering  from  now. 

And  that's  enough  about  myself.  I  want  to  suggest 
something  to  you.  You  may  laugh,  old  boy — but  I'm 
in  earnest.  I  remember  your  telling  me  once  that, 
when  you  were  up  at  the  'Varsity,  you  used  to  scribble 


124  MUFTI 

a  bit.  I  didn't  pay  much  attention ;  in  those  days  one 
didn't  pay  attention — ever.  But  now  your  words  have 
come  back  to  me  once  or  twice,  during  the  night,  when 
I've  been  seeing  dream  pictures  in  my  reading  lamp 
and  the  ward  has  been  asleep.  Have  you  thought  that 
possibly  that  is  the  line  along  which  you  might  devel- 
op? Don't  you  think  it's  worth  trying,  Derek?  And 
then,  perhaps — this  is  my  wildest  dream,  the  raving  of 
a  fevered  brain — the  day  will  come  when  you  and  I 
can  stand  together  and  realise  that  each  of  us  in  our 
own  way  has  made  good — has  done  something  to  help 
on — les  autres.  Oh!  Derek — it's  worth  trying,  old 
man — surely  it's  worth  trying.  We've  just  got  to  do 
something  that's  worth  while,  before  we  come  to  the 
end — if  only  to  balance  a  little  of  the  hideous  mass  of 
worthlessness  that's  being  piled  up  to-day.  .  .  . 

Don't  bother  to  answer  this,  as  I  know  you  find 
writing  difficult.  I  hope  to  be  getting  some  leave  soon : 
we  can  have  a  talk  then.  How  goes  the  arm  ?M  A  toi, 
mon  cheri. 

MARGARET. 

PS. — There's  rather  a  dear  man  living  fairly  close 
to  Rumfold,  old  Sir  James  Devereux.  His*  house  is 
Blandford — a  magnificent  old  place;  almost  if  not 
quite  as  fine  as  Rumfold,  and  the  grounds  are  bigger. 
His  wife  died  when  the  son  was  born,  and  I  rather 
think  there  is  a  daughter,  but  she  was  away  at  a  finish- 
ing school  when  I  knew  them.  Go  over  and  call ;  from 
what  I  heard  there's  a  distinct  shortage  of  money — 
at  least  of  enough  to  keep  the  place  going. 

P. PS. — He's  not  really  old — about  only  fifty.  Say 
you  know  Daddy;  they  used  to  shoot  together. 


MUFTI  125 

With  something  like  a  sigh  Vane  laid  down  the  last 
sheet,  and,  striking  a  match,  relit  his  pipe.  Then  once 
again  his  eyes  rested  on  the  misty,  purple  hills.  Mar- 
garet a  successful  doctor ;  himself  literary  educator  of 
the  public  taste.  v  ,  .It  was  so  entirely  different  from 
any  picture  he  had  previously  contemplated,  on  the 
rare  occasions  when  he  had  thought  about  matrimony 
or  the  future  at  all,  that  it  left  him  gasping.  It  was 
perfectly  true  that  he  had  scribbled  a  certain  amount 
in  years  gone  by,  when  he  was  at  the  ' Varsity :  but  not 
seriously.  .  .  .  An  essay  or  two  which  he  had  been 
told  showed  distinct  ability :  a  short  story,  of  possible 
merit  but  questionable  morality,  which  had  been  ac- 
cepted on  the  spot  by  a  not  too  particular  periodical 
and  had  never  been  paid  for — that  was  the  extent  of 
his  scribbling.  And  yet — Margaret  might  be  right. 
.  .  .  One  never  knows  till  ore  tries :  and  Vane  grinned 
to  himself  as  that  hoary  platitude  floated  through  his 
mind.  .  .  .  Then  his  thoughts  passed  to  the  other  side 
of  the  picture.  Margaret,  dispensing  admonition  and 
pills,  in  her  best  professional  manner,  to  long  queues 
of  the  great  unwashed.  He  felt  certain  that  she  would 
|4>refer  that  section  of  the  community  to  any  less  odor- 
iferous one.  .  .  .  And  she'd  probably  never  charge 
anything,  and,  if  she  did,  he  would  have  to  stand  at 
the  door  and  collect  it,  probably  in  penny  stamps. 
Vane's  shoulders  shook  a  little  as  this  engaging  tableau 
presented  itself.  .  .  .  What  about  the  little  hunting 
box  not  far  from  Melton,  where,  in  the  dear  long  ago, 
he  had  always  pictured  himself  and  his  wife  winter- 
ing? Provided  always  the  mythical  She  had  some 
money !  There  would  be  stabling  for  six  nags,  which, 
with  care,  meant  five  days  a  fortnight  for  both  of 


126  MUFTI 

them.  Also  a  garage,  and  a  rather  jolly  squash  racquet 
court.  Then  a  month  in  Switzerland,  coming  back 
towards  the  end  of  January  to  finish  the  season  off.  A 
small  house  of  course  in  Town — some  country  house 
cricket :  and  then  a  bit  of  shooting.  .  .  .  One  needn't 
always  go  to  Switzerland  either  in  the  winter;  Cairo 
is  very  pleasant,  and  so  is  Nice.  ...  It  was  an  allur- 
ing prospect,  no  less  now  than  formerly ;  but  it  meant 
that  Margaret's  patients  would  have  to  hop  around 
some.  .  .  .  And  they'd  probably  leave  her  if  he  stood 
at  the  door  in  a  pink  coat  and  a  hunting  topper  collect- 
ing postage  stamps.  They  are  rather  particular  over 
appearances,  are  the  ragged  trousered  and  shredded 
skirt  brigade.  .  .  . 

The  thing  was  grotesque ;  it  was  out  of  the  question, 
Vane  told  himself  irritably.  After  all,  it  is  possible 
to  push  altruism  too  far,  and  for  Margaret,  at  her  age 
and  with  her  attractions,  to  go  fooling  around  with 
medicine,  with  the  mistaken  idea  that  she  was  benefit- 
ing humanity,  was  nothing  more  or  less  than  damned 
twaddle.  If  she  wanted  to  do  something  why  not  take 
up  her  music  seriously.  .  .  . 

And  it  was  at  this  point  in  his  deliberations  that  a 
sentence  vibrated  across  his  memory.  It  was  so  clear 
that  it  might  almost  have  been  spoken  in  his  ear:  "If 
you  loved  such  a  life  you'd  just  do  it.  ...  And  you'd 
succeed." 

Vane  folded  Margaret's  letter,  and  put  it  in  his 
pocket.  If  she  really  loved  the  thought  of  such  a  life 
she  would  just  do  it.  ...  And  she  would  succeed.  As 
far  as  he  was  concerned  there  would  be  nothing  more 
to  say  about  it;  she  had  a  perfect  right  to  decide  for 
herself.  She  left  him  free — that  he  knew;  he  could 


MUFTI  127 

still  carry  out  his  hunting  box  programme  in  full.  Only 
he  would  have  to  play  the  part  alone — or  with  someone 
else.  .  .  .  Someone  else.  Abruptly  he  rose  from  his 
chair,  and  found  himself  face  to  face  with  Lady  Pat- 
terdale.  .  .  . 

"Good  morning,  Captain  Vane/'  she  remarked  aff- 
ably. "'Ad  a  good  night?" 

"Splendid,  thank  you,  Lady  Patterdale." 

"Ain't  the  news  splendid?  Marshal  Foch  seems  to 
be  fair  making  the  'Uns  'um." 

Vane  laughed.  "Yes,  they  seem  to  be  sitting  up  and 
taking  notice,  don't  they?" 

"Sir  John  is  marking  it  all  up  in  the  'All  on  the 
map,  with  flags,"  continued  the  worthy  old  woman. 
"I  can't  make  'ead*  or  tail  of  it  all  myself — but  my 
'usband  likes  to  'ave  everything  up  to  date.  'E  can't 
form  any  real  opinion  on  the  strategy,  he  says,  unless 
he  knows  where  everybody  is." 

Vane  preserved  a  discreet  silence. 

"But  as  I  tells  'im,"  rambled  on  Lady  Patterdale, 
"it  doesn't  seem  to  me  to  be  of  much  account  where 
the  poor  fellows  are.  You  may  move  a  pin  from  'ere 
to  there,  and  feel  all  pleased  and  joyful  about  it — but 
you  wouldn't  feel  so  'appy  if  you  was  the  pin." 

Vane  laughed  outright.  "You've  got  a  way  of 
putting  things,  Lady  Patterdale,  which  hits  the  nail 
on  the  head  each  time." 

"Ah!  you  may  laugh,  Captain  Vane.  You  may 
think  I'm  a  silly  old  woman  who  doesn't  know  what 
she's  talking  about.  But  I've  got  eyes  in  my  'ead; 
and  I'm  not  quite  a  fool.  I've  seen  young  men  go  out 
to  France  laughing  and  cheerful;  and  I've  seen  'em 
come  back.  They  laugh  just  as  much — perhaps  a  bit 


128  MUFTI 

more;  they  seem  just  as  cheerful — but  if  you  love  'em 
as  I  do  you  come  to  something  which  wasn't  never 
there  before.  They've  been  one  of  the  pins.  Lots  of 
us  'ave  been  one  of  the  pins,  Captain  Vane;  though 
we  ain't  been  to  France  you  can  lose  other  things  be- 
sides your  life  in  this  world." 

She  nodded  her  head  at  him  solemnly  and  waddled 
on,  while  Vane  stood  for  a  moment  looking  after  her. 
Assuredly  this  common  old  woman  possessed  in  her 
some  spark  of  the  understanding  which  is  almost  Di- 
vine. .  .  .  And  Vane,  with  a  quick  flash  of  insight, 
saw  the  proud  planting  of  the  pin  on  Rum  fold  Hall — a 
strategic  advance,  but  the  casualty  list  had  never  been 
published.  .  .  . 

He  strolled  along  the  veranda  and  into  the  hall. 
Sir  John  with  a  very  small  audience — mostly  new- 
comers— around  him  was  holding  forth  on  the  new 
developments  in  France  and  Vane  paused  for  a  mo- 
ment to  listen. 

"You  mark  my  words,  me  boys,"  he  was  saying, 
"this  is  the  big  thing.  I  put  my  trust  in  Foch :  he's 
the  fellow  who's  got  my  money  on  him.  No  nonsense 
about  Foch.  Of  course  it's  going  to  be  costly,  but 
you  can't  have  omelettes  without  breaking  eggs.  An 
old  proverb,  me  boys — but  a  true  one." 

"More  than  true,  Sir  John,"  remarked  Vane  quietly. 
"And  one  that  from  time  immemorial  has  proved  an 
immense  comfort  to  the  egg." 

He  went  on  up  to  his  room.  It  was  too  early  yet 
to  start  for  Bland  ford,  but  Vane  was  in  no  mood  for 
his  own  thoughts.  They  had  reached  a  stage,  indeed, 
Whence  he  preferred  not  to  follow  them  further. 
Doubtless  by  the  time  Margaret  returned  on  leave,  the 


MUFTI  129 

beaten  track  would  have  revealed  itself:  until  then — 
cui bono?  .  .  . 

He  looked  at  his  watch,  and  it  occurred  to  him  that 
he  would  just  have  comfortable  time  to  pay  a  visit 
to  old  John  before  starting  on  his  walk  through  the 
woods.  From  Robert  he  had  found  out  where  the 
old  man  was  living  in  the  village,  and,  a  few  minutes 
later,  he  was  strolling  down  the  drive  towards  his 
house.  He  found  the  little  garden,  just  as  perfectly 
kept  as  had  been  the  one  at  the  Lodge :  the  white  mus- 
lin curtains  in  the  front  rooms  were  just  as  spotless. 
And  old  John  himself  was  watering  a  row  of  sweet 
peas  as  he  came  to  the  little  gate.  .  .  . 

"Ah!  Mr.  Vane,  sir,"  he  remarked,  putting  down 
his  can  and  hobbling  forward.  "I'm  honoured  to  see 
you,  sir."  Then  as  he  saw  the  three  stars  on  Vane's 
sleeve,  he  corrected  himself.  "Captain  Vane,  sir,  I 
should  have  said.  .  .  . " 

"I  don't  think  we're  likely  to  fall  out  over  that, 
John,"  laughed  Vane.  "One  never  knows  what  any- 
body is  these  days.  You're  a  Colonel  one  minute,  and 
a  subaltern* the  next." 

Old  John  nodded  his  head  thoughtfully.  "That's 
true,  sir — very  true.  One  doesn't  seem  to  know  where 
one  is  at  all.  The  world  seems  topsy-turvy.  Things 
have  changed,  sir — and  I'm  thinking  the  missus  and 
I  are  getting  too  old  to  keep  pace  with  them.  Take 
young  Blake,  sir — down  the  village,  the  grocer's  son. 
Leastways,  when  I  says  grocer,  the  old  man  keeps  a 
sort  of  general  shop.  Now  the  boy,  sir,  is  a  Captain. 
...  I  mis'remember  what  regiment — but  he's  a  Cap- 
tain." 


130  MUFTI 

"And  very  likely  a  devilish  good  one  too,  John/' 
said  Vane  smiling. 

"He  is,  sir.  I've  seen  reports  on  him — at  schools 
and  courses  and  the  like — which  say  he's  a  fine  officer. 
But  what's  going  to  happen  afterwards,  sir,  that's 
what  I  want  to  know  ?  Is  young  Bob  Blake  going  to 
put  on  his  white  apron  again,  and  hand  the  old  woman 
her  bit  of  butter  and  sugar  over  the  counter?  What 
about  that,  sir?" 

"I  wish  to  Heaven  I  could  tell  you,  John,"  said 
Vane.  "Bob  Blake  isn't  the  only  one,  you  know." 

"Them  as  is  sound,  sir,"  went  on  the  old  man, 
"won't  be  affected  by  it.  They  won't  have  their  heads 
turned  by  having  mixed  with  the  gentry  as  their  equals 
— like.  And  the  real  gentry  won't  think  no  more  nor 
less  of  them  when  they  goes  back  to  their  proper  sta- 
tion. .  .  .  But  there'll  be  some  as  will  want  to  stop  on 
in  a  place  where  they  don't  rightly  belong.  And 
it'll  make  a  world  of  unhappiness,  sir,  for  all  con- 
cerned. „  .  ." 

Unconsciously  the'  old  man's  eyes  strayed  in  the 
direction  of  Rumfold  Hall,  and  he  sighed. 

"You  can't  alter  the  ways  of  the  Lord,  sir,"  con- 
tinued old  John.  "We  read  in  the  Book  that  He 
made  them  richer  and  poorer,  and  some  of  one  class, 
and  some  of  another.  As  long  as  everybody  remem- 
bers which  class  he's  in,  he'll  get  what  happiness  he 
deserves.  ..." 

Vane  did  not  feel  inclined  to  dispute  this  from  the 
point  of  view  of  Holy  Writ.  The  trouble  is  that  it 
takes  a  stronger  and  more  level  head  than  is  possessed 
by  every  boy  of  twenty  to  understand  that  a  khaki 
uniform  unlocks  doors  on  which  a  suit  of  evening 


MUFTI  131 

clothes  bought  off  the  peg  and  a  made  up  tie  fail  to 
produce  any  impression.  If  only  he  realises  that  those 
doors  are  not  worth  the  trouble  of  trying  to  unlock, 
all  will  be  well  for  him;  if  he  doesn't,  he  will  be  the 
sufferer.  .  .  .  Which  is  doubtless  utterly  wrong,  but 
such  is  the  Law  and  the  Prophets. 

"I  reckons  there  are  troublous  times  ahead  of  us, 
sir,"  went  on  the  old  man.  "More  troublous  than  any 
we  are  going  through  now — though  them's  bad 
enough,  in  all  conscience.  Why,  only  the  other  eve- 
ning, I  was  down  at  the  Fiddler's  Arms,  for  a  glass  of 
what  they  do  call  beer — 'tis  dreadful  stuff,  sir,  that 
there  Government  beer.  .  .  .;>  Old  John  sighed 
mournfully  at  the  thought  of  what  had  been.  "I  was 
sitting  in  there,  as  I  says,  when  in  comes  some  young 
feller  from  Grant's  garage,  up  the  road.  Dressed 
classy  he  was — trying  to  ape  his  betters — with  a  yel- 
low forefinger  from  smoking  them  damned  stinking 
fags — and  one  of  them  stuck  behind  his  ear. 

"  'Hullo,  gaffer/  he  says,  'how's  the  turnips  ?' 

"  'Looking  worse  in  France  than  they  do  in  Eng- 
land/ says  I.  'Have  you  been  to  see  ?' 

"That  hit  him,  sir,  that  did,"  chuckled  old  John. 
"He  fair  squirmed  for  a  moment,  while  the  others 
laughed.  'Don't  you  know  I'm  on  work  of  national 
importance?'  he  says.  'I'm  exempted/ 

"  The  only  work  of  national  importance  you're 
ever  likely  to  do,  my  lad/  says  I,  'won't  be  done  till 
you're  dead.  And  not  then  if  you're  buried  proper/ 
'  'What  do  you  mean  ?'  he  asks. 

'"You  might  help  the  turnips  you're  so  anxious 
about/  says  I,  'if  they  used  you  as  manure/  "  Old 


132  MUFTI 

John,  completely  overcome  by  the  remembrance  of 
this  shaft,  laughed  uproariously. 

"You  should  have  seen  his  face,  sir,"  he  went  on 
;when  he  had  partially  recovered.  "He  got  redder 
and  redder,  and  then  he  suddenly  says,  'e  says, 
'Weren't  you  the  lodge  keeper  up  at  Rumf old  Hall  ?' 

"  'I  was/  I  answered  quiet  like,  because  I  thought 
young  Master  Impudence  was  getting  on  dangerous 
ground. 

"  'One  of  the  poor  wretched  slaves/  he  sneers,  'of 
a  bloated  aristocrat.  .  .  .  We're  going  to  alter  all 
that/  he  goes  on,  and  then  for  a  few  minutes  I  let  him 
talk.  He  and  his  precious  friends  were  going  to  see 
that  all  that  wretched  oppression  ceased,  and  then  he 
finished  up  by  calling  me  a  slave  again,  and  sneering 
at  his  Lordship." 

Old  John  spat  reflectively.  "Well,  sir,  I  stopped 
him  then.  In  my  presence  no  man  may  sneer  at  his 
/  Lordship — certainly  not  a  callow  pup  like  him.  His 
Lordship  is  a  fine  man  and  a  good  man,  and  I  was 
his  servant"  The  old  man  spoke  with  a  simple  dig- 
nity that  impressed  Vane.  "I  stopped  him,  sir,"  he 
continued,  "and  then  I  told  him  what  I  thought  of 
him.  I  said  to  him,  I  said,  'Young  man,  I've  listened 
to  your  damned  nonsense  for  five  minutes — now  you 
listen  to  me.  When  you — with  your  face  all  covered 
with  pimples,  and  your  skin  all  muddy  and  sallow — 
start  talking  as  you've  been  talking,  there's  only  one 
thing  should  be  done.  Your  mother  should  take  your 
trousers  down  and  smack  you  with  a  hair  brush; 
though  likely  you'd  cry  with  fright  before  she  started. 
I  was  his  Lordship's  servant  for  forty-two  years,  and 
I'm  prouder  of  that  fact  than  anyone  is  likely  to  be 


MUFTI  133 

over  anything  you  do  in  your  life.  And  if  his  Lord- 
ship came  in  at  that  door  now,  he'd  meet  me  as  a 
man  meets  a  man.  Whereas  you — you'd  run  round 
him  sniffling  like  the  lickspittle  you  are — and  if  he 
didn't  tread  on  you,  you'd  go  and  brag  to  all  your 
other  pimply  friends  that  you'd  been  talking  to  an 
Earl.  .  .  .'" 

"Bravo!  old  John  .  .  .  bravo!"  said  Vane  quietly. 
"What  did  the  whelp  do?" 

"Tried  to  laugh  sarcastic,  sir,  and  then  slunk  out  of 
the  door."  The  old  man  lit  his  pipe  with  his  gnarled, 
trembling  fingers.  "It's  coming,  sir — perhaps  not  in 
my  time — but  it's  coming.  Big  trouble.  .  .  .  All 
those  youngsters  with  their  smattering  of  education, 
and  their  airs  and  their  conceits  and  their  I'm  as 
good  as  you/ '  He  fell  silent  and  stared  across  the 
road  with  a  troubled  look  in  his  eyes.  "Yes,  sir,"  he 
repeated,  "there  be  bad  days  coming  for  England 
— terrible  bad — unless  folks  pull  themselves  to- 
gether. .  .  ." 

"Perhaps  the  Army  may  help  'em  ;when  it  cornea 
back,"  said  Vane. 

"May  be,  sir,  may  be/'  Old  John  shook  his  head 
doubtfully.  "Perhaps  so.  Anyways,  let's  hope  so, 


sir." 


"Amen,"  answered  Vane  with  sudden  earnestness. 

And  then  for  a  while  they  talked  of  the  soldier  son 
who  had  been  killed.  With  a  proud  lift  to  his  tired, 
bent  shoulders  old  John  brought  out  the  letter  written 
by  his  platoon  officer,  and  showed  it  to  the  man  who 
had  penned  a  score  of  similar  documents.  It  was  well 
thumbed  and  tattered,  and  if  ever  Vane  had  experi- 


134  MUFTI 

enced  a  sense  of  irritation  at  the  exertion  of  writing 
to  some  dead  boy's  parents  or  wife  he  was  amply  re- 
paid now.  Such  a  little  trouble  really;  such  a  won- 
derful return  of  gratitude  even  though  it  be  unknown 
and  unacknowledged.  .  .  .  "You'll  see  there,  sir," 
said  the  old  man,  "what  his  officer  said.  I  can't  see 
myself  without  my  glasses — but  you  read  it,  sir,  you 
read  it.  ...  'A  magnificent  soldier,  an  example  to  the 
platoon.  I  should  have  recommended  him  for  the 
stripe.'  How's  that,  sir.  .  .  .  ?  And  then  there's  an- 
other bit  .  .  .  'Men  like  him  can't  be  replaced.'  Eh ! 
my  boy.  .  .  .  Can't  be  replaced.  You  couldn't  say 
that,  sir,  about  yon  pimply  ferret  I  was  telling  you 
about.'* 

"You  could  not,  old  John,"  said  Vane.  "You 
could  not."  He  stood  up  and  gave  the  letter  back. 
"It's  a  fine  letter;  a  letter  any  parent  might  be  proud 
to  get  about  his  son." 

"Aye,"  said  the  old  man,  "he  was  a  good  boy  was 
Bob.  None  o'  this  new-fangled  nonsense  about  him." 
He  put  the  letter  carefully  in  his  pocket.  "Mother 
and  me,  sir,  we  often  just  looks  at  it  of  an  evening. 
It  sort  of  comforts  her.  .  .  .  Somehow  it's  hard  to 
think  of  him  dead.  ..."  His  lips  quivered  for  a 
moment,  and  then  suddenly  he  turned  fiercely  on 
Yane.  "And  yet,  I  tells  you,  sir,  that  I'd  sooner  Bob 
•was  dead  over  yonder — aye — I'd  sooner  see  him  lying 
dead  at  my  feet,  than  that  he  should  ever  have  learned 
such  doctrines  as  be  flying  about  these  days." 

Thus  did  Vane  leave  the  old  man,  and  as  he  walked 
down  the  road  he  saw  him  still  standing  by  his  gate 
thumping  with  his  stick  on  the  pavement,  and  shaking 


MUFTI  135 

his  head  slowly.  It  was  only  when  Vane  got  to  the 
turning  that  old  John  picked  up  his  can  and  continued 
his  interrupted  watering.  .  .  .  And  it  seemed  to 
Vane  that  he  had  advanced  another  step  towards 
finding  himself. 


CHAPTER  IX 

VANE,  conscious  that  he  was  a  little  early  for 
lunch,  idled  his  way  through  the  woods.  He  was 
looking  forward,  with  a  pleasure  he  did  not  attempt  to 
analyse,  to  seeing  Joan  in  the  setting  where  she  be- 
longed. And  if  occasionally  the  thought  intruded  it- 
self that  it  might  be  advisable  to  take  a  few  mental 
compass  bearings  and  to  ascertain  his  exact  position 
before  going  any  further,  he  dismissed  them  as  ridicu- 
lous. Such  thoughts  have  been  similarly  dismissed 
before.  ...  It  was  just  as  Vane  was  abusing  him- 
self heartily  for  being  an  ass  that  he  saw  her  coming 
towards  him  through  a  clearing  in  the  undergrowth. 
She  caught  sight  of  him  at  the  same  moment  and 
stopped  short  with  a  swift  frown. 

"I  didn't  know  you  knew  this  path/'  she  said  as 
he  came  up  to  her. 

"I'm  sorry — but  I  do.  You  see,  I  knew  Rumfold 
pretty  well  in  the  old  days.  .  .  .  Is  that  the  reason  of 
the  frown?" 

"I  wasn't  particularly  anxious  to  see  you  or  any- 
body," she  remarked  uncompromisingly.  "I  wanted 
to  try  to  think  something  out.  .  .  ." 

'Then  we  are  a  well  met  pair,"  laughed  Vane.  "I 
will  walk  a  few  paces  behind  you,  and  we  will  medi- 
tate." 

"Don't  be  a  fool,"  said  Joan  still  more  uncompro- 
misingly. "And  anyway  you're  very  early  for  lunch." 

136 


MUFTI  137 

She  looked  at  her  wrist  watch.  ...  "I  said  one  o'clock 
and  it's  only  half  past  twelve.  The  best  people  don't 
come  before  they're  asked.  .  .  ." 

"I  throw  myself  on  the  mercy  of  the  court,"  pleaded 
Vane  solemnly.  "I'll  sit  on  this  side  of  the  bush  and' 
you  sit  on  the  other  and  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour  we 
will  meet  unexpectedly  with  all  the  usual  symptoms  of 
affection  and  joy.  ..." 

The  girl  was  slowly  retracing  her  steps,  with  Vane 
just  behind  her,  and  suddenly  through  an  opening  in 
the  trees  Bland  ford  came  in  sight.  It  was  not  the 
usual  view  that  most  people  got,  because  the  path 
through  the  little  copse  was  not  very  well  known — but 
from  nowhere  could  the  house  be  seen  to  better  advan- 
tage. The  sheet  of  placid,  unruffled  water  with  its 
low  red  boathouse :  the  rolling  stretch  of  green  sweep- 
ing up  from  it  to  the  house  broken  only  by  the  one 
terrace  above  the  tennis  lawns ;  the  rose  garden,  a  feast 
of  glorious  colour,  and  then  the  house  itself  with  its 
queer  turrets  and  spires  and  the  giant  trees  beyond 
it ;  all  combined  to  make  an  unforgettable  picture. 

Joan  had  stopped  and  Vane  stood  silently  beside 
her.  She  was  taking  in  every  detail  of  the  scene,  and 
Vane,  glancing  at  her  quickly,  surprised  a  look  of 
almost  brooding  fierceness  in  her  grey  eyes.  It  was  a 
look  of  protection,  of  ownership,  of  fear,  all  combined  : 
a  look  such  as  a  tigress  might  give  if  her  young  were 
threatened.  .  .  .  And  suddenly  there  recurred  to  his 
mind  that  phrase  in  Margaret's  letter  about  financial 
trouble  at  Bland  ford.  It  had  not  impressed  him  par- 
ticularly when  he  read  it ;  now  he  found  himself  won- 
dering. .  .  . 

"Isn't  it  glorious?"-     The  girl  was  speaking  very 


138  MUFTI 

low,  as  if  unconscious  that  she  had  a  listener.  Then 
she  turned  on  Vane  swiftly.  "Look  at  that!"  she 
cried,  and  her  arm  swept  the  whole  perfect  vista. 
"Isn't  it  worth  while  doing  anything — anything  at  all 
— to  keep  that  as  one's  own?  That  has  belonged  to 
us  for  five  hundred  years — and  now !  .  .  .  My  God ! 
just  think  of  a  second  Sir  John  Patterdale — here" — 
the  brooding  wild  mother  look  was  in  her  eyes  again, 
and  her  lips  were  shut  tight. 

Vane  moved  restlessly  beside  her.  He  felt  that  the 
situation  was  delicate ;  that  it  was  only  his  unexpected 
and  unwelcome  arrival  on  the  scene  that  had  made 
her  take  him  into  his  confidence.  Evidently  there 
was  something  gravely  the  matter;  equally  evidently 
it  was  nothing  to  do  with  him.  .  .  . 

"I  hope  there's  no  chance  of  such  a  tragedy  as 
that,"  he  said  gravely. 

She  turned  and  faced  him.  "There's  every  chance," 
she  cried  fiercely.  "Dad  is  up  against  it — I  know  he 
is,  though  he  doesn't  say  much.  And  this  morn- 
ing. .  .  ."  She  bit  her  lip,  and  once  more  her  eyes 
rested  on  the  old  house.  "Oh !  what's  the  good  of  talk- 
ing ?"  she  went  on  after  a  moment.  "What  has  to  be — 
has  to  be;  but,  oh!  it  makes  me  mad  to  think  of  it. 
What  good  does  it  do,  what  purpose  in  the  scheme  of 
things  you  may  talk  about,  does  it  serve  to  turn  out  a 
man,  who  is  beloved  for  miles  around,  and  put  in  his 
place  some  wretched  pork  butcher  who  has  made  mil- 
lions selling  cat's  meat  as  sausages?" 

She  faced  Vane  defiantly,  and  he  wisely  remained 
silent. 

"You  may  call  it  what  you  like,"  she  stormed ;  "but 
it's  practically  turning  him  out.  Is  it  a  crime  to  own 


MUFTI  139 

land,  and  a  virtue  to  make  a  fortune  out  of  your 
neighbors  in  trade?  Dad  has  never  swindled  a  soul. 
He's  let  his  tenants  down  easy  all  through  the  war 
when  they've  had  difficulties  over  their  rent;  he's  just 
idolised  by  them  all.  And  now  he's  got  to  go — un- 
less .  .  ."  She  paused  and  her  two  hands  clenched 
suddenly.  Then  she  continued,  and  her  voice  was  quite 
calm.  "I  know  I'm  talking  rot — so  you  needn't  pay 
any  attention.  The  great  thinkers  are  all  agreed — 
aren't  they? — that  the  present  land  system  is  wrong 
— and  they  must  know,  of  course.  But  I'm  not  a 
great  thinker,  and  I  can't  get  beyond  the  fact  that  it's 
not  going  to  increase  anybody's  happiness — and  there 
are  a  good  many  to  be  considered — if  Dad  goes,  and 
a  pork  butcher  comes  in.  ...  And  that's  that.  .  .  ." 

"Supposing,"  said  Vane  curiously,  "it  wasn't  a 
pork  butcher?  Suppose  it  was  someone  who — well, 
let's  say  whom  you  wouldn't  mind  going  in  to  dinner 
with." 

"It  would  be  just  the  same,"  she  answered  after  a 
moment.  "Just  the  same.  It's  ours,  don't  you  see? 
— it's  ours.  It's  always  been  ours."  And  the  brood- 
ing, animal  look  had  come  back  into  her  eyes.  .  .  . 

Then  with  a  laugh  she  turned  to  him.  "Come  on; 
you've  got  to  make  a  bow  to  Aunt  Jane.  Mind  you 
tell  her  you've  killed  a  lot  of  Germans.  She'll  adore 
you  for  ever.  ..." 

She  threw  off  her  fit  of  depression  and  chatted  gaily 
all  the  way  up  to  the  house. 

"I've  told  Dad  you're  a  very  serious  young  man," 
she  remarked,  as  they  reached  the  drive;  "so  you'd 
better  live  up  to  your  reputation." 

Vane  groaned.     "Your  sins  be  upon  your  own 


140  MUFTI 

head/'  he  remarked.  "I've  already  had  one  serious 
dissertation  this  morning  from  old  John,  who  used 
to  be  lodge-keeper  at  Rumfold." 

"I  know  him  well,"  cried  the  girl.  "A  dear  old 
man.  ..." 

"Who  shares  your  views  on  the  land  question," 
said  Vane  with  a  smile. 

She  stopped  and  faced  him.  "Don't  you?"  she 
demanded  quietly. 

"In  your  own  words,  Joan — I  am  a  very  serious 
young  man;  and  I  am  seeking  for  knowledge." 

For  a  moment  she  seemed  about  to  reply,  and  then, 
with  a  short  laugh,  she  turned  on  her  heel  and  walked 
on.  It  was  just  as  they  were  entering  the  drawing- 
room  that  she  looked  at  him  over  her  shoulder.  "I 
hope  your  search  will  be  successful,"  she  remarked; 
"and  I  hope  still  more  that  when  it  is  successful  you 
won't  commit  suicide.  To  have  knowledge,  to  know 
to-day  what  is  the  truth,  would  be,  I  think,  the  most 
terrible  burden  any  man  could  bear.  Have  you  ever 
thought  how  tired  God  must  be?" 

Before  he  could  answer  she  was  shouting  down  her 
aunt's  ear-trumpet.  And  Vane  was  left  wondering 
at  the  strange  mixture  which  went  to  make  up  Joan 
Devereux. 

Sir  James  was  cordially  delighted  to  see  him,  es- 
pecially when  he  discovered  that  Vane  knew  Mr. 
Trent. 

"Where's  the  little  girl  ?"  he  asked  as  they  sat  down 
to  luncheon.  "Margaret  was  her  name,  I  think." 

To  his  intense  annoyance  Vane  found  himself  col- 
ouring slightly,  and  at  the  same  moment  he  became 


MUFTI  141 

acutely  aware  that  a  pair  of  grey  eyes  were  fixed  on 
him  from  the  other  side  of  the  table. 

"She  is  nursing  at  Staples,  I  believe,"  he  answered 
casually,  but  a  soft  gurgle  of  laughter  told  him  it  was 
useless. 

"Captain  Vane,  Dad,  is  the  soul  of  discretion/' 
mocked  Joan.  "I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  he  wasn't 
nursed  by  her.  .  .  . " 

"Devilish  nice  girl  to  be  nursed  by,  too,  my  dear," 
chuckled  her  father,  "from  what  I  remember  of  her. 
What  do  you  think,  Vane?"  He  was  merdfully 
spared  the  necessity  of  answering  by  the  intervention 
of  Aunt  Jane,  who  had  pursued  her  own  train  of 
thought,  blissfully  unconscious  of  any  change  of  con- 
versation. 

"How  many  of  the  brutes  did  you  say  you'd  killed, 
young  man?"  she  boomed  at  him,  at  the  same  time 
putting  her  ear-trumpet  at  the  "ready." 

"Two  for  certain,"  howled  Vane;  "perhaps  three." 

She  resumed  her  lunch,  and  Sir  James  laughed. 
"My  sister,"  he  remarked,  "is  full  of  war.  .  .  . 
Rather  fuller — like  a  good  many  of  those  who  have 
stayed  behind — than  you  fellows.  ..." 

"It's  very  much  nicer,"  said  Vane  with  a  laugh, 
"to  kill — even  a  Boche — in  imagination  than  in  reality. 
.  .  .  Though  I've  seen  many  men,"  he  added  thought- 
fully, "go  blood  mad." 

"Do  you  remember  that  description  of  Kipling's," 
said  Sir  James,  "of  the  scrap  between  the  Black 
Tyrone  and  the  Pathans?  Mulvaney  was  sick,  and 
Ortheris  cursed,  and  Learoyd  sang  hymns — wasn't 
it?" 

"I've  seen  them  all  those  ways,"  said  Vane  thought- 


142  MUFTI 

fully,  "and  the  worst  of  the  lot  are  the  silent  ones. 
.  .  .  There  was  one  fellow  I  had  who  never  uttered 
a  word  from  the  time  we  went  over  till  the  finish,  and 
he  never — if  he  could  avoid  it — struck  a  man  any- 
where except  in  the  stomach.  .  .  .  And  incidentally  he 
could  quote  more  from  the  Bible  than  most  Bishops. 
...  In  fact,  if  he  ever  did  speak,  so  I'm  told,  when  he 
was  fighting  it  was  just  to  remark,  'And  the  Lord  said' 
— as  he  stabbed." 

Sir  James  nodded,  and  then  half -closed  his  eyes. 
"One  just  can't  get  it,"  he  said.  "None  of  us  who 
haven't  been  there  will  ever  get  it — so  I  suppose  it's 
not  much  use  trying.  But  one  can't  help  thinking  that 
if  only  a  few  of  the  people  who  count  over  here  could 
go  and  see,  it  might  make  a  difference.  We  might 
not  be  having  so  much  trouble.  ..." 

"See  the  reality  and  clear  away  the  humbug,"  said 
Vane.  "Can't  be  done,  Sir  James.  I  know  Staff 
Officers  who  would  willingly  give  a  year's  pay  to 
shepherd  a  personally  conducted  Cook's  party  to 
France  of  the  British  working  man.  They  get  their 
legs  pulled  right  and  left  by  everybody  out  there ;  and 
do  you  wonder?"  He  laughed  shortly.  "Tommy's 
no  fool :  six  pounds  a  week  instead  of  a  shilling  a  day. 
And  comparisons  are  odious." 

"But  couldn't  they  be  taken  really  into  things?" 
asked  his  host. 

"I  can't  quite  see  the  party  popping  the  parapet," 
grinned  Vane.  "It's  not  a  thing  which  anyone  does 
for  pleasure.  .  .  ." 

It  was  at  that  moment  that  with  a  loud  booming 
noise  Aunt  Jane  again  contributed  to  the  conversation. 


MUFTI  143 

"I'm  afraid  you've  wasted  your  time  out  there,  young 
man." 

"She  means  that  two  Germans  and  one  doubtful 
isn't  enough,"  gurgled  Joan,  as  she  saw  Vane's  look 
of  bewilderment.  To  his  relief  the  old  lady  did  not 
adjust  her  trumpet,  so  he  assumed  rightly  that  he 
would  be  allowed  to  suffer  her  displeasure  in  si- 
lence. .  .  . 

"Well,"  said  Sir  James  after  a  pause.  "I  suppose 
there  are  unsurmountable  difficulties  in  making  people 
understand.  But  if  I  had  my  way  I'd  take  some  of 
these  blackguards  who  are  fattening  on  the  country's 
helplessness  and  I'd  put  'em  in  the  front  line  trench- 
es. ...  " 

"With  a  trench  mortar  bombardment  on,"  supple- 
mented Vane  laughing. 

"And  I'd  let  'em  stop  there  and  rot,"  continued  Sir 
James.  "It's  wicked;  it's  vile;  it's  abominable — ex- 
ploiting their  country's  danger  for  their  own  pockets. 
.  .  .  What's  going  to  happen  when  the  war  is  over, 
God  alone  knows." 

"Your  fish  will  get  cold,  Daddy,  unless  you  go  on 
with  it,"  said  Joan  soothingly. 

But  Sir  James  was  started  on  his  favourite  hobby. 
It  would  have  taken  more  than  the  possibility  of  cold 
fish  to  stem  the  torrent,  and  Vane,  supported  by  the 
most  fleeting  of  winks  from  Joan,  made  no  attempt  to 
do  so.  He  had  heard  it  all  before ;  the  worthy  Baro- 
net's views  were  such  as  are  delivered  daily  by  the 
old  order  in  every  part  of  the  country.  And  the  thing 
that  perplexed  Vane  more  and  more  as  he  listened,  and 
periodically  returned  a  non-committal  "Yes"  or  "No," 
was  where  the  fallacy  lay.  These  were  the  views  he 


144  MUFTI 

had  been  brought  up  on;  they  were  the  views  with 
which,  in  his  heart  of  hearts,  he  agreed.  And  yet  he 
felt  dimly  that  there  must  be  another  side  to  the  ques- 
tion :  he  knew  there  was  another  side.  Otherwise  .  .  . 
but  Sir  James,  when  he  got  into  his  stride,  did  not 
permit  much  meditation  on  the  part  of  his  audience. 

"Organised  labour,"  he  thundered,  "has  found  it- 
self, because  we  are  at  war,  all  powerful.  We  depend 
on  the  organised  workers,  and  they  know  it.  The 
lives  of  our  men  are  at  stake.  .  .  .  Their  brothers, 
mark  you,  Vane.  What  do  they  care?  Not  a  dam, 
sir,  not  a  dam.  More  money,  money — that's  all  they 
want.  They  know  the  State  won't  dare  a  lock-out — 
and  they  trade  on  it.  ...  Why  don't  they  conscript 
'em,  sir  ? — why  don't  they  put  the  whole  cursed  crowd 
into  khaki?  Then  if  they  strike  send  'em  over  into 
the  trenches  as  I  said,  and  let  'em  rot  there.  That 
would  soon  bring  'em  to  their  senses.  .  .  ."  Sir 
James  attacked  his  chicken  viciously. 

"What's  going  to  happen,"  he  went  on  after  a  mo- 
ment, "when  we  return  to  peace  conditions?  The 
private  employer  can't  pay  these  inflated  wages.  .  .  . 
He  simply  can't  do  it,  and  that's  an  end  of  it.  But 
now,  of  necessity,  it's  been  a  case  of  surrender — sur- 
render— surrender  to  any  demands  the  blackguards 
like  to  put  up.  And  they've  got  it  each  time.  Do  you 
suppose  they're  going  to  stop?" 

"But  surely  there's  such  a  thing  as  common  sense," 
interrupted  Vane.  "Surely  the  matter  can  be  put  in 
front  of  them  so  that  they  will  understand?  ...  If 
not,  it's  a  pretty  useful  confession  of  ineptitude." 

Sir  James  laughed  shortly.  "There  are  several 
floating  round  at  the  moment.  .  .  .  But  it  isn't  quite 


MUFTI  145 

as  easy  as  all  that,  my  dear  fellow.  In  times  of  unrest 
power  comes  automatically  more  and  more  into  the 
hands  of  the  man  who  can  talk ;  men  like  Ramage,  and 
others  of  his  kidney.  A  few  meaningless  but  high 
flown  phrases ;  a  few  such  parrot  cries  as  'Down  with 
the  Capitalist  and  the  Future  is  for  the  Worker/  and 
you've  got  even  the  steadiest  man  unsettled.  .  .  . 
Especially  if  he's  one  of  a  crowd;  mob  psychology  is 
the  devil.  ..."  Sir  James  paused  and  stared  out  of 
the  window.  "I  don't  fear  for  the  decent  fellow  in 
the  long  run;  it's  in  the  early  stages  he  may  get 
blown.  ..." 

"What  are  you  two  men  talking  about  so  busily?" 
Aunt  Jane  once  again  presented  her  trumpet  to  Vane. 

"Labour  trouble,  Miss  Devereux,"  he  roared. 
"Trouble  in  the  labour  market." 

The  old  lady's  face  set  grimly.  "My  convictions 
on  that  are  well  known,"  she  boomed.  "Put  them  in 
a  row  against  a  wall  and  shoot  them." 

"My  sister's  panacea  for  all  evil,"  said  Sir  James 
with  a  smile. 

"There  are  others  as  well  as  Miss  Devereux  who 
would  recommend  the  same  thing,"  said  Vane  with  a 
short  laugh. 

"Shoot  'em,"  rasped  the  old  lady;  "shoot  'em,  and 
go  on  shooting  till  there  are  no  more  left  to  shoot. 
I'm  sure  we'd  get  along  very  well  without  the  brutes." 

"What's  going  to  stop  'em  ?"  Sir  James  returned  to 
his  former  question.  "Nothing — until  they've  tried 
everything,  and  found  they're  wrong.  And  while 
they're  finding  out  the  simple  fact  that  no  employer 
can  pay  a  guinea  for  a  pound's  worth  of  work  the 
country  will  crash.  We'll  have  anarchy,  Vane — Bol- 


146  MUFTI 

shevism  like  Russia,  unless  a  miracle  saves  us.  .  >:  w 
Financed  by  the  Boche  probably  into  the  bargain." 

"Dear  old  Daddy/'  laughed  Joan.  "You're  sucE 
an  optimist,  aren't  you  ?" 

"It's  no  laughing  matter,  my  dear,"  snorted  her 
father.  "There's  a  wave  of  madness  over  the  world 
.  .  .  absolute  madness.  The  more  you  give  into  them 
— the  more  decently  you  treat  'em — the  more  they 
want.  .  .  .  People  talk  about  the  old  order  changing ; 
what  I  want  to  know  is  what  they're  going  to  put  in  its 
place?  When  they've  broken  up  the  Empire  and  re- 
duced England  to  a  fifth-rate  Power,  they'll  probably 
want  the  old  order  back.  .  .  .  It'll  be  too  late  to  want 
then.'* 

"I  gather,  Sir  James,  that  you  are  not  exactly  a 
Socialist,"  murmured  Vane  gravely,  with  a  side  glance 
at  Joan. 

His  host  rose  to  the  bait.  "I—a  Socialist— I !  Why 
— why!  .  .  ."he  spluttered,  and  then  he  saw  his 
daughter's  face.  She  was  dimpling  with  laughter,  and 
suddenly  Sir  James  laughed  too. 

"You  nearly  had  me  then,  my  boy,"  he  cried ;  "very 
nearly.  But  it's  on  that  point,  Vane,  that  I  get  so 
wild  with  these  intellectual  men — men  who  should 
know  better.  Men  like  Ramage,  and  Johnson  and  all 
that  lot.  They  know  themselves  that  Socialism  is  a 
wild  impossibility;  they  know  that  equality  is  out  of 
the  question,  and  yet  they  preach  it  to  men  who  have 
not  got  their  brains.  It's  a  dangerously  attractive  doc- 
trine; the  working  man  who  sees  a  motor  flash  past 
him  wouldn't  be  human  if  he  didn't  feel  a  tinge  of 
envy.  .  .  .  But  the  Almighty  has  decreed  that  it 


MUFTI  147 

should  be  so:  and  it's  flying  in  His  Face  to  try  to 
change  it." 

Vane  looked  thoughtfully  at  his  host.  "I  fancy  the 
Almighty's  dictates  are  less  likely  to  be  questioned  by 
the  motor  car  owner  than  by  the  working  man." 

"I  agree  with  you,  Vane/'  returned  Sir  James  at 
once.  "But  that  doesn't  alter  the  principle  of  the 
thing.  ...  By  all  means  improve  their  conditions 
.  .  .  give  them  better  houses  .  .  .  stop  sweated  la- 
bour. That  is  our  privilege  and  our  duty.  But  if  they 
continue  on  their  present  line,  they'll  soon  find  the  dif- 
ference. Things  we  did  for  'em  before,  they'll  have 
to  whistle  for  in  the  future." 

"You're  getting  your  money's  worth  this  time,  aren't 
you,  Captain  Vane?"  said  Joan  demurely. 

But  Vane  only  smiled  at  her  gravely  and  did  not 
answer.  Here  were  the  views,  crudely  expressed,  per- 
haps, of  the  ordinary  landed  gentleman.  The  man 
who  of  all  others  most  typically  represented  feudalism. 
Benevolent,  perhaps — but  feudalism.  .  .  .  The  old 
order.  "They  talk  about  'back  to  the  land/  "  snorted 
Sir  James  suddenly,  "as  the  sovereign  cure  for  all 
evils.  You  can  take  it  from  me,  Vane,  that  except  in 
a  few  isolated  localities  the  system  of  small  holdings 
is  utterly  uneconomical  and  unsuccessful.  It  means 
ceaseless  work,  and  a  mere  pittance  in  return.  You 
know  Northern  France — well,  you've  got  the  small 
holdings  scheme  in  full  blast  there.  What  time  do  they 
get  up  in  the  morning ;  what  time  do  they  go  to  bed  at 
night?  What  do  they  live  on?  And  from  what  you 
know  of  your  own  fellow  countrymen,  do  you  think 
any  large  percentage  would  tackle  such  a  life?  Be- 
lieve me,  these  days,  none  of  us  want  to  keep  land 


148  MUFTI 

very  much/'  Sir  James  frowned  slightly.  "Unless 
one  has  old  family  traditions.  .  .  .  And  even  those 
will  have  to  go  by  the  board — sooner  or  later.  .  .  . 
It  doesn't  pay,  Vane,  you  can  take  it  from  me.  .  .  . 
And  to  split  it  up  into  small  holdings,  and  invite  men 
of  varying  degrees  of  inefficiency  to  earn  a  livelihood 
on  it,  won't  help  matters." 

Sir  James  pushed  back  his  chair  and  they  rose  from 
the  table. 

"I  have  victimised  you  enough,  my  dear  boy,"  he 
remarked.  "I  think  Joan  had  better  carry  on  the 
good  work."  She  put  her  arm  round  his  waist,  and 
her  father  looked  down  at  her  lovingly.  "What  are 
you  doing  to  do  with  him,  old  lady?" 

"Are  you  busy,  Dad,  this  afternoon?"  she  asked. 

Sir  James  nodded,  and  he  seemed  to  Vane  to  have 
grown  very  old.  "The  old  order  is  changing — what 
are  they  going  to  put  in  its  place?  ..."  A  sudden 
fear  caught  him  in  its  grip.  He  turned  quickly  and 
stared  out  of  the  window;  at  the  wonderful  bit  of 
England  that  lay  before  him.  Quiet  and  smiling  in  the 
warm  sun,  it  lay  there — a  symbol  of  the  thing  for 
which  Englishmen  have  laid  down  their  lives  since 
time  started.  At  that  very  second  men  were  dying  for 
it — over  the  water.  Was  it  all  to  be  in  vain  ? 

"Yes,  girlie,"  Sir  James  was  speaking.  "I've  got  a 
lot  of  business  to  attend  to.  That  wretched  fellow 
Norton  can't  pay  his*  rent  again.  ..." 

"Oh !  Dad,  he  is  a  bit  steep,"  cried  the  girl.  "That's 
the  third  time." 

Sir  James  laughed.  "I  know,  my  dear;  but  things 
are  bad.  After  all,  he  has  lost  one  of  his  sons  in 
Mesopotamia." 


MUFTI  149 

"A  drunken  waster,"  cried  the  girl. 

"He  died,  Joan,"  said  her  father  simply.  "No 
man  may  do  more." 

"You're  too  kind-hearted,  Dad,"  she  said,  patting 
his  arm,  and  looking  up  into  his  face.  "I  wouldn't 
be." 

Sir  James  laughed.  "Oh !  yes,  you  would.  Besides, 
I  sha'n't  have  a  chance  much  longer."  With  a  quick 
sigh,  he  bent  and  kissed  her.  "Run  along  and  take 
Vane  out  on  the  lake.  I'll  come  down  later  and  shout 
at  you  from  the  bank."  She  watched  her  father  leave 
the  room,  and  then  she  turned  to  Vane. 

"Would  you  care  to  come  on  the  lake?"  she  asked, 
and  in  her  eyes  there  was  a  strange,  inscrutable  look 
which  set  him  wondering. 

"I'd  love  it,"  said  Vane.  He  followed  her  into  the 
open  window  and  together  they  stepped  on  to  the 
lawn. 

Aunt  Jane  had  already  taken  her  usual  position, 
preparatory  to  her  afternoon  nap;  but  Vane's  sudden 
appearance  apparently  stirred  some  train  of  thought  in 
her  mind.  As  he  came  up  to  her  she  adjusted  her 
trumpet  and  boomed.  "Shoot  'em,  young  man — shoot 
'em  until  there  are  none  left." 

"Why,  certainly,  Miss  Devereux,"  he  shouted. 
"That's  what  I  think."  She  nodded  her  approval  at 
meeting  such  a  kindred  spirit,  and  replaced  the  fog- 
horn on  the  ground  beside  her.  He  felt  that  his  poor 
record  of  dead  Huns  was  forgiven  him,  and  rejoined 
Joan  with  a  smile. 

"How  easy  it  would  be,  if  that  was  the  way,"  she 
said  quietly.  "Dear  old  Aunt  Jane — I  remember  sit- 


150  MUFTI 

ting  up  with  her  most  of  one  night,  trying  to  comfort 
her,  when  her  pug  dog  went  lame  on  one  foot." 

Vane  laughed,  and  as  they  came  to  a  turn  in  the 
path,  they  looked  back.  The  old  lady  was  already- 
dozing  gently — at  peace  with  all  the  world. 


CHAPTER  X 

IF  you  say  one  word  to  me  this  afternoon  which 
might  even  be  remotely  twisted  into  being  serious," 
said  Joan,  "I  shall  upset  you  in  the  middle  of  the 
lake/' 

An  inspection  of  the  general  lines  of  the  boat  pre- 
vented Vane  from  taking  the  threat  too  seriously ;  with 
anything  approaching  luck  a  party  of  four  could  have 
crossed  the  Atlantic  in  it.  Innumerable  cushions  scat- 
tered promiscuously  served  to  make  it  comfortable, 
and  as  the  girl  spoke  Vane  from  his  seat  in  the  stern 
was  helping  to  push  the  boat  from  the  boat-house. 

"You  terrify  me,  lady,"  he  murmured.  "What 
shall  I  talk  to  you  about?" 

The  girl  was  pulling  lazily  at  the  oars,  and  slowly 
they  drifted  out  into  the  sunshine.  "So  she  who  must 
be  obeyed  is  Margaret  Trent,  is  she?" 

"The  evidence  seems  a  trifle  slight,"  said  Vane. 
"But  as  I  rather  gather  you're  an  insistent  sort  of 
person,  I  will  plead  guilty  at  once,  to  save  bother." 

"You  think  I  generally  get  my  own  way,  do  you?" 

"I  do,"  answered  Vane.    "Don't  you?" 

The  girl  ignored  the  question.  "What  is  she  like? 
I've  often  heard  dad  speak  about  Mr.  Trent;  and  I 
think  she  came  once  to  Bland  ford,  when  I  was  away." 

"I  gather  that  you  were  being  finished."  Vane 
started  filling  his  pipe.  "At  least  she  said  so  in  a  let- 
ter I  got  this  morning." 

151 


i  $2  MUFTI 

Joan  looked  at  him  for  a  moment.  "Did  you  write 
to  her  about  me?" 

"I  don't  think  she  even  knows  you're  at  home,"  said 
Vane  shortly,  "much  less  that  I've  met  you." 

"Would  you  mind  her  knowing?"  persisted  the  girl. 

"Why  on  earth  should  I?"  demanded  Vane  with  a 
look  of  blank  surprise. 

She  took  a  few  strokes,  and  then  rested  on  her  oars 
again.  "There  are  people,"  she  said  calmly,  "who 
consider  I'm  the  limit — a  nasty,  fast  hussy.  ..." 

"What  appalling  affectation  on  your  part,"  jeered 
Vane,  lighting  his  pipe.  "What  do  you  do  to  keep 
up  your  reputation — sell  flags  in  Leicester  Square  on 
flag  days?"  The  girl's  attention  seemed  to  be  concen- 
trated on  a  patch  of  reeds  where  a  water-hen  was  be- 
coming vociferous.  "Or  do  you  pursue  the  line  taken 
up  by  a  woman  I  met  last  time  I  was  on  leave?  She 
was  a  Wraf  or  a  Wren  or  something  of  that  kind,  and 
at  the  time  she  was  in  mufti.  But  to  show  how  up  to 
date  she  was  she  had  assimilated  the  jargon,  so  to 
speak,  of  the  mechanics  she  worked  with.  It  almost 
gave  me  a  shock  when  she  said  to  me  in  a  confidential 
aside  at  a  mutual  friend's  house,  'Have  you  ever  sat 
down  to  a  more  perfectly  bloody  tea?1 ' 

"I  think,"  said  Joan  with  her  eyes  still  fixed  on  the 
reeds,  "that  that  is  beastly.  It's  not  smart,  and  it 
does  not  attract  men.  ..." 

"You're  perfectly  right  there,"  returned  Vane, 
grimly.  "However,  arising  out  of  that  remark,  is  your 
whole  object  in  life  to  attract  men?" 

"Of  course  it  is.  It's  the  sole  object  of  nine  women 
out  of  ten.  Why  ask  such  absurd  questions?" 

"I  sit  rebuked,"  murmured  Vane.     "But  to  return 


MUFTI  153 

— in  what  way  do  your  charitable  friends  consider  you 
the  limit?" 

"I  happen  to  be  natural,"  said  Joan,  "and  at  times 
that's  very  dangerous.  I'm  not  the  sort  of  natural 
you  know,  that  loves  cows  and  a  country  life,  and  gives 
the  chickens  their  hard-boiled  eggs,  or  whatever  they 
eat,  at  five  in  the  morning." 

"But  you  like  Blandford,"  said  Vane  incautiously. 

"Bland ford!"  A  passionate  look  came  into  her 
face,  as  her  eyes  looking  over  his  head  rested  on  the 
old  house.  "Blandford  is  just  part  of  me.  It's  dif- 
ferent. Besides,  the  cow  man  hasn't  been  called  up," 
she  added  inconsequently.  "He's  sixty-three." 

"A  most  tactful  proceeding,"  said  Vane,  skating 
away  from  thin  ice. 

"I'm  natural  in  another  way,"  she  went  on  after  a 
short  silence.  "If  I  want  to  do  a  thing — I  generally 
do  it.  For  instance,  if  I  want  to  go  and  talk  to  a  man 
in  his  rooms,  I  do  so.  Why  shouldn't  I?  If  I  want 
to  dance  a  skirt  dance  in  a  London  ballroom,  I  do  it. 
But  some  people  seem  to  think  it's  fast.  I  made  quite 
a  lot  of  money  once  dancing  at  a  restaurant  with  a 
man,  you  know — in  between  the  tables.  Of  course 
we  wore  masks,  because  it  might  have  embarrassed 
some  of  the  diners  to  recognise  me."  The  oars  had 
dropped  unheeded  from  her  hands,  and  she  leaned  for- 
ward, looking  at  Vane  with  mocking  eyes.  "I  just 
loved  it." 

"I'll  bet  you  did,"  laughed  Vane.  "What  made 
you  give  it  up?" 

"A  difference  of  opinion  between  myself  and  some 
of  the  male  diners,  which  threatened  to  become  chron- 
ic," she  returned  dreamily.  "That's  a  thing,  my  seeker 


154  MUFTI 

after  information,  which  the  war  hasn't  changed,  any- 
way." 

For  a  while  he  made  no  answer,  but  lay  back  against 
the  cushions,  puffing  at  his  pipe.  Occasionally  she 
pulled  two  or  three  gentle  strokes  with  the  oars,  but 
for  the  most  part  she  sat  motionless  with  her  eyes 
brooding  dreamily  over  the  lazy  beauty  of  the  water. 

"You're  a  funny  mixture,  Joan,"  he  said  at  length. 
"Devilish  funny.  ..."  And  as  he  spoke  a  fat  old 
carp  rose  almost  under  the  boat  and  took  an  unwary 
fly.  "The  sort  of  mixture,  you  know,  that  drives  a 
man  insane.  ..." 

She  was  looking  at  the  widening  ripples  caused  by 
the  fish  and  she  smiled  slightly.  Then  she  shrugged 
her  shoulders.  "I  am  what  I  am.  .  .  .  And  just  as 
.with  that  fly,  fate  comes  along  suddenly,  doesn't  it,  and 
pouf  .  .  .  it's  all  over!  All  its  little  worries  settled 
for  ever  in  a  carp's  tummy.  If  only  one's  own  troubles 
could  be  settled  quite  as  expeditiously.  ..." 

He  looked  at  her  curiously.  "It  helps  sometimes, 
Joan,  to  shoot  your  mouth,  as  our  friends  across  the 
water  say.  I'm  here  to  listen,  if  it's  any  com- 
fort. .  .  ." 

She  turned  and  faced  him  thoughtfully.  "There's 
something  about  you,  Derek,  that  I  rather  like."  It 
was  the  first  time  that  she  had  called  him  by  his  Chris- 
tian name,  and  Vane  felt  a  little  pleasurable  thrill  run 
through  him.  But  outwardly  he  gave  no  sign. 

"That  is  not  a  bad  beginning,  then,"  he  said  quietly. 
"If  you're  energetic  enough  let's  get  the  boat  under 
that  weeping  willow.  I'm  thinking  we  might  tie  her 
up,  and  there's  room  for  an  army  corps  in  the  stern 
here. 


MUFTI  155 

The  boat  brushed  through  the  drooping  branches, 
and  Vane  stepped  into  the  bow  to  make  fast.  Then  he 
turned  round,  and  stood  for  a  while  watching  the  girl 
as  she  made  herself  comfortable  amongst  the  cush- 
ions. .  .  .  "There  was  once  upon  a  time,"  he  prompted 
"a  man  .  .  ." 

"Possessed,"  said  Joan,  "of  great  wealth.  Gold 
and  silver  and  precious  stones  were  his  for  the  ask- 
ing. .  .  ." 

"It's  to  be  assumed  that  the  fortunate  maiden  who 
was  destined  to  become  his  wife  would  join  in  the 
chorus  with  average  success,"  commented  Vane  judi- 
cially. 

"The  assumption  is  perfectly  correct.  Is  not  the 
leading  lady  worthy  of  her  hire?"  She  leaned  back 
in  her  cushions  and  looked  up  at  Vane  through  half- 
closed  eyes.  "In  the  fulness  of  time,"  she  went  on 
dreamily,  "it  came  to  pass  that  the  man  possessed  of 
great  wealth  began  to  sit  up  and  take  notice.  'Behold/ 
he  said  to  himself,  1  have  all  that  my  heart  desireth, 
saving  only  one  thing.  My  material  possessions  grow 
and  increase  daily,  and,  as  long  as  people  who  ought 
to  know  better  continue  to  kill  each  other,  even  so 
long  will  they  continue  growing/  I  don't  think  I  men- 
tioned, did  I,  that  there  was  a  perfectly  'orrible  war 
on  round  the  corner  during  the  period  under  consider- 
ation?" 

"These  little  details — though  trifling — -should  not  be 
omitted,"  remarked  Vane  severely.  "It  is  the  duty  of 
all  story  tellers  to  get  their  atmosphere  correct.  ..." 
He  sat  down  facing  her  and  started  to  refill  his  pipe. 
.  .  .  "What  was  this  one  thing  he  lacked  ?" 

"Don't  interrupt.     It  is  the  duty  of  all  listeners  to 


156  MUFTI 

control  their  impatience.    Only  the  uninitiated  skip/' 

"I  abase  myself/*  murmured  Vane.  "Proceed,  I 
pray  you." 

"So  the  man  of  great  wealth  during  the  rare  inter- 
vals which  he  could  snatch  from  amassing  more — con- 
tinued to  commune  with  himself.  'I  will  look  around/ 
he  said  to  himself,  'and  select  me  a  damsel  from 
amongst  the  daughters  of  the  people.  Peradventure, 
she  may  be  rich — peradventure  she  may  be  poor;  but 
since  I  have  enough  of  the  necessary  wherewithal  to 
support  the  entire  beauty  chorus  which  appears  nightly 
in  the  building  down  the  road  known  as  the  House  of 
Gaiety — the  question  of  her  means  is  immaterial. 
Only  one  thing  do  I  insist  upon,  that  she  be  passing 
fair  to  look  upon.  Otherwise — nix  doing  for  this 
child.  .  .  .'" 

Joan  stirred  restlessly,  and  her  fingers  drummed 
idly  on  the  side  of  the  boat.  And  Vane — because  he 
was  a  man,  and  because  the  girl  so  close  to  him  was 
more  than  passing  lovely — said  things  under  his 
breath.  The  parable  was  rather  too  plain. 

"And  behold  one  night,"  went  on  Joan  after  a 
while,  "this  man  of  great  wealth  partook  of  his  dried 
rusk  and  Vichy  water — his  digestion  was  not  all  it 
might  be — at  the  house  of  one  of  the  nobility  of  his 
tribe.  The  giver  of  the  feast  had  permitted  his  name 
to  be  used  on  the  prospectus  of  some  scheme  organised 
by  the  man  of  wealth — thereby  inspiring  confidence  in 
all  who  read,  and  incidentally  pouching  some  of  the 
Bradburys.  He  further  considered  it  possible  that  by 
filling  his  guest  with  food  and  much  wine,  he  might 
continue  the  good  work  on  other  prospectuses,  thereby 
pouching  more  Bradburys.  In  the  vulgar  language  in 


MUFTI  157 

vogue  at  the  period,  however,  Vichy  water  put  the  lid 
on  that  venture  with  a  bang.  .  .  .  But  even  with 
champagne  it  is  doubtful  whether  there  would  have 
been  much  doing,  because — well,  because — the  man 
of  wealth  had  his  attention  for  the  moment  occupied 
elsewhere.  To  be  exact  on  the  other  side  of  the 
table.  .  .  ." 

"Ah !"  said  Vane,  and  his  breath  came  in  a  sort  of 
sigh.  "I'm  thinking  you  had  better  let  me  tell  this 
bit.  It  was  just  after  the  slaves  had  thrown  open  the 
doors,  and  the  guests  had  seated  themselves,  that  the 
man  of  great  wealth  chanced  to  look  up  from  his  rusk. 
He  frequently  did  look  up  when  consuming  these  deli- 
cacies, otherwise  he  found  they  made  him  excited,  and 
calmness  is  necessary  for  the  poor  digestion.  He 
looked  up  then,  as  usual,  and  suddenly  he  caught 
his  breath.  Over  a  great  silver  bowl  filled  with 
roses  .  .  ." 

"Carnations  sound  better/'  said  Joan. 

"Filled  with  carnations  he  saw  a  girl.  .  .  .  They 
were  pink  and  red  those  carnations — glorious  in  the 
shaded  light;  and  the  silver  and  the  glass  with  which 
this  tribe  was  wont  to  feed  its  face  glittered  and  shone 
on  the  polished  table.  But  the  man  of  wealth  had 
silver  and  glass  as  good,  and  he  had  no  eyes  for  that. 
.  .  .  For  it  had  come  to  him,  and  he  was  a  man  who 
was  used  to  making  up  his  mind  quickly,  that  he  had 
found  the  damsel  he  required.  She  was  dressed — ah ! 
how  was  she  dressed,  lady  ?  She  was  dressed  in  a  sort 
of  grey  gauzy  stuff,  and  her  neck  and  shoulders 
gleamed  white — gloriously  white.  A  great  mass  of 
brown  hair  which  shimmered  as  if  it  was  alive;  a  little 
oval  face,  with  cheeks  that  seemed  as  if  the  sun  had 


158  MUFTI 

kissed  them.  A  mouth  quite  small,  with  lips  that 
parted  in  a  mocking  smile;  a  nose — well,  just  a  nose. 
But  crowning  everything — dominating  everything — a 
pair  of  great  grey  eyes.  What  eyes  they  were  I  They 
made  the  man  of  wealth  bolt  his  rusk.  There  was  one 
mouthful  he  only  chewed  fifteen  times  instead  of  the 
customary  thirty-two.  They  contained  all  Heaven, 
and  they  contained  all  Hell ;  in  them  lay  the  glory  of  a 
God,  the  devilment  of  a  Siren,  and  the  peace  of  a 
woman.  .  .  .  And  just  once  she  looked  at  him  during 
dinner — the  look  of  a  stranger — cool  and  self-pos- 
sessed. Just  casually  she  wondered  whether  it  was 
worth  while  to  buy  money  at  the  cost  of  a  rusk  diet ; 
then  she  turned  to  the  man  next  her.  .  .  .  Let's  see — 
he  was  a  warrior,  snatching  a  spell  of  rest  from  the 
scrap  round  the  corner.  And  she  didn't  even  hear  the 
man  of  great  wealth  choke  as  the  half -chewed  rusk 
went  down  wallop." 

The  girl  looked  at  Vane  for  a  moment.  "But  you 
are  really  rather  a  dear,"  she  remarked  thoughtfully. 

"It's  your  turn  now,"  said  Vane  shortly. 

"The  donor  of  the  feast,"  she  resumed  at  once,  "was 
going  a  mucker.  The  possession  of  extra  Bradburys, 
coupled  with  a  wife  who  combined  a  champagne  taste 
with  his  gin  income,  had  inspired  him  to  give  a  dance. 
He  hoped  that  it  might  help  to  keep  the  damn  woman 
quiet  for  a  bit;  and,  besides  everybody  was  giving 
dances.  It  was  the  thing  to  do,  and  warriors  fresh 
from  the  fierce  battle  were  wont  to  step  lightly  on  the 
polished  floor.  As  a  matter  of  historical  interest,  nine 
out  of  every  ten  of  the  warriors  who  performed  nightly 
at  different  houses,  were  fresh  from  the  office  stool  at 


MUFTI  159 

the  House  of  War — a  large  edifice,  completely  filled 
with  girl  scouts  and  brain-storms.  .  .  ." 

"Beautiful,"  chuckled  Vane;  "quite  beautiful/* 

"You  see  the  actual  warriors  didn't  get  much  of  a 
look  in.  By  the  time  they  got  to  know  anybody  they 
had  to  go  back  round  the  corner  again  and  they  got 
tired  of  propping  up  the  walls  and  looking  on.  Be- 
sides what  made  it  even  more  dangerous  for  them  was 
that  kind-hearted  women  took  compassion  on  them, 
and  their  own  empty  programmes  and  introduced 
themselves.  And  in  the  vernacular  they  were  the 
snags.  But  all  these  things  were  hidden  from  the 
man  of  great  wealth.  ..." 

"Contrary  to  a  life-long  habit,"  said  Vane,  "he  re- 
mained after  dinner  and  haunted  the  door.  Just  every 
now  and  then  a  girl  in  grey  gauzy  stuff  floated  past  him 
— and  once,  only  once,  he  found  himself  looking  into 
those  big  grey  eyes  when  she  passed  quite  close  to 
him  going  out  to  get  some  lemonade.  And  the  rusk 
did  a  somersault.  ..." 

"But  he  didn't  haunt  the  door,"  gurgled  Joan.  "He 
got  roped  in.  He  fell  an  easy  victim  to  the  snag  pa- 
rade— and  women  fainted  and  men  wept  when  the 
man  of  great  possessions  and  the  pointed  woman  took 
the  floor.  ..." 

"Pointed?"  murmured  Vane. 

"All  jolts  and  bumps,"  explained  the  girl.  "Her 
knees  were  like  steel  castings.-  I  think  that  if  the — 
if  the  girl  in  grey  gauzy  stuff  had  realised  that  the 
man  of  wealth  had  stopped  behind  for  her,  she  might, 
out  of  pity,  have  given  him  one  dance.  But  instead  all 
she  did  was  to  shake  with  laughter  as  she  saw  him 
quivering  in  a  corner  held  fast  in  the  clutch  of  the 


160  MUFTI 

human  steam  engine.  She  heard  the  blows  he  was 
receiving;  they  sounded  like  a  hammer  hitting  wood; 
and  then  later  she  saw  him  limping  painfully  from  the 
room — probably  in  search  of  some  Elliman's  embroca- 
tion. But,  as  I  say,  she  didn't  realise  it.  ...  She  only 
thought  him  a  silly  old  man.  ..." 

"Old,"  said  Vane  slowly.  .  .  .  "How  old?" 

"About  fifty,"  said  the  girl  vaguely.  Then  she 
looked  at  Vane.  "She  found  out  later  that  he  was 
forty-eight,  to  be  exact." 

"Not  so  very  old  after  all,"  remarked  Vane,  pitching 
a  used  match  into  the  water,  and  stuffing  down  the 
tobacco  in  his  pipe  with  unusual  care. 

"It  was  towards  the  end  of  the  dance,"  she  resumed, 
"that  the  man  of  great  wealth  was  introduced  to  the 
girl  in  grey,  by  the  donor  of  the  feast.  The  band  had 
gathered  in  all  the  coal-scuttles  and  pots  it  could,  and 
was  hitting  them  hard  with  pokers  when  the  historical 
meeting  took  place.  You  see  it  was  a  Jazz  band  and 
they  always  economise  by  borrowing  their  instruments 
in  the  houses  they  go  to.  ... " 

"And  did  she  dance  with  him  ?"  asked  Vane. 

"I  don't  think  he  even  asked  her  to,"  said  Joan. 
"But  even  as  she  went  off  with  a  boy  in  the  Flying 
Corps  she  realised  that  she  was  face  to  face  with  a 
problem." 

"Quick  work,"  murmured  Vane. 

"Most  of  the  big  problems  in  life  are  quick,"  re- 
turned the  girl.  "You  see  the  man  of  great  possessions 
was  not  accustomed  to  disguising  his  feelings ;  and  the* 
girl — though  she  didn't  show  it — was  never  far  re- 
moved from  the  skeleton  in  her  cupboard." 


MUFTI  161 

She  fell  silent,  and  for  a  while  they  neither  of  them 
spoke. 

"It  developed  along  the  accepted  lines,  I  suppose,'* 
remarked  Vane  at  length. 

"Everything  quite  conventional/'  she  answered.  "A 
fortnight  later  he  suggested  that  she  should  honour 
him  by  accepting  his  name  and  wealth.  He  has 
repeated  the  suggestions  at  frequent  intervals 
since.  .  .  ." 

"Then  she  didn't  say  'Yes1  at  once/'  said  Vane 
softly. 

"Ah !  no,"  answered  the  girl.  "And  as  a  matter  of 
fact  she  hasn't  said  it  yet" 

"But  sometimes  o'  nights,"  said  Vane,  "she  lies 
awake  and  wonders.  And  then  she  gets  out  of  bed, 
and  perhaps  the  moon  is  up,  shining  cold  and  white  on 
the  water  that  lies  in  front  of  her  window.  And  the 
trees  are  throwing  black  shadows,  and  somewhere  in 
the  depths  of  an  old  patriarch  an  owl  is  hooting  mourn- 
fully. For  a  while  she  stands  in  front  of  her  open 
window.  The  air  is  warm,  and  the  faint  scent  of  roses 
comes  to  her  from  outside.  A  great  pride  wells  up  in 
her — a  great  pride  and  a  great  love,  for  the  sleeping 
glory  in  front  of  her  belongs  to  her;  to  her  and  her 
father  and  her  brother."  The  girl's  face  was  half- 
turned  away,  and  for  a  moment  Vane  watched  the 
lovely  profile  gravely.  "And  then,"  he  went  on  slowly, 
"with  a  sigh  she  sits  down  in  the  big  arm-chair  close 
to  the  window,  and  the  black  dog  conies  in  and  settle** 
on  her.  In  another  room  in  the  house  she  sees  her 
father,  worrying,  wondering  whether  anything  can  be' 
done,  or  whether  the  glory  that  has  been  theirs  for 
hundreds  of  years  must  pass  into  the  hands  of  a 


162  MUFTI 

stranger.  .  .  .  And  after  a  while  the  way  out  comes 
into  her  thoughts,  and  she  stirs  restlessly  in  her  chair. 
Because,  though  the  girl  in  grey  is  one  of  the  set  in 
her  tribe  who  dance  and  feed  in  many  public  places, 
and  which  has  nothing  in  common  with  those  who  sit 
at  home  doing  good  works;  yet  she  possesses  one  or 
two  strange,  old-fashioned  ideas,  which  she  will  hardly 
ever  admit  even  to  herself.  Just  sometimes  o'  night 
they  creep  out  as  she  stares  through  the  window,  and 
the  weird  cries  of  the  wild  come  softly  through  the 
air.  'Somewhere,  there  is  a  Prince  Charming/  they 
whisper,  and  with  a  sigh  she  lets  herself  dream.  At 
last  she  creeps  back  to  bed — and  if  she  is  very,  very 
lucky  the  dreams  go  on  in  her  sleep."  Vane  knocked 
out  his  pipe  on  the  side  of  the  boat. 

"It's  only  when  morning  comes,"  he  went  on,  and 
there  was  a  hint  of  sadness  in  his  voice,  "that  the 
strange,  old-fashioned  ideas  creep  shyly  into  the  cor- 
ner. Along  with  the  tea  have  come  some  of  the  new 
smart  ones  which  makes  them  feel  badly  dressed  and 
dull.  They  feel  that  they  are  gauche — and  yet  they 
know  that  they  are  beautiful — wonderfully  beautiful 
in  their  own  badly  dressed  way.  Timidly  they  watch 
from  their  corner — hoping,  hoping.  .  .  .  And  then 
at  last  they  just  disappear.  They're  only  dream  ideas, 
you  see;  I  suppose  they  can't  stand  daylight  and  tea 
with  saccharine  in  it,  and  reality.  .  .  .  It's  as  they 
float  towards  the  window  that  sometimes  they  hear  the 
girl  talking  to  herself.  'Don't  be  a  fool/  she  says 
angrily,  'you've  got  to  face  facts,  my  dear.  And  a 
possible/  Charming  without  a  bean  in  the  world  isn't 
a  fact — it's  a  farce.  It  simply  can't  be  done.  .  .  . 
And  three  new  very  smart  ideas  in  their  best  glad  rags 


MUFTI  163 

make  three  long  noses  at  the  poor  little  dowdy  fellows 
as  they  go  fluttering  away  to  try  to  find  another 
home." 

Vane  laughed  gently,  and  held  out  his  cigarette  case 
to  the  girl.  And  it  was  as  she  turned  to  take  one  that 
he  saw  her  eyes  were  very  bright — with  the  starry 
brightness  of  unshed  tears.  "Sure — but  it's  nice  to 
talk  rot  at  times,  my  lady,  isn't  it?"  he  murmured. 
"And,  incidentally,  I'm  thinking  I  didn't  tell  the  grey 
girl's  story  quite  right.  Because  it  wasn't  herself  that 
she  was  thinking  of  most;  though/'  and  his  eyes 
twinkled,  "I  don't  think,  from  my  ideas  of  her,  that 
she  is  cut  out  for  love  in  a  cottage,  with  even  the 
most  adorable  Prince  Charming.  But  it  wasn't  her- 
self that  came  first ;  it  was  pride  and  love  of  home  and 
pride  and  love  of  family." 

The  girl  bit  her  lip  and  stared  at  him  with  a  troubled 
look.  "Tell  me,  oh  man  of  much  understanding," 
she  said  softly,  "what  comes  next  ?" 

But  Vane  shook  his  head  with  a  laugh.  "Cross  my 
palm  with  silver,  pretty  lady,  and  the  old  gipsy  will 
tell  your  fortune.  .  .  .  I  see  a  girl  in  grey  surrounded 
by  men-servants  and  maid-servants,  and  encased  in 
costly  furs  and  sparkling  gems.  Standing  at  the  door 
outside  is  a  large  and  expensive  Limousine  into  which 
she  steps.  The  door  is  shut,  and  the  car  glides  off, 
threading  its  way  through  the  London  traffic.  At  last 
the  road  becomes  clearer,  the  speed  increases,  until 
after  an  hour's  run  the  car  swings  in  between  some 
old  lodge  gates.  Without  a  sound  it  sweeps  up  the 
drive,  and  the  girl  sees  the  first  glint  of  the  lake 
through  the  trees.  There  is  a  weeping  willow  too, 
and  as  her  eyes  rest  on  it  she  smiles  a  little,  and  then 


164  MUFTI 

she  sighs.  The  next  moment  the  car  is  at  the  front 
door,  and  she  is  in  the  arms  of  a  man  who  has  come 
out  to  meet  her.  She  calls  him  'Dad/  and  there's  at 
boy  just  behind  him,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
who  has  eyes  for  nothing  except  the  car.  Because  it's 
'some'  car.  .  .  .  She  spends  the  day  there,  and  when 
she's  leaving,  the  man  she  calls  'Dad'  puts  his  hand  on 
her  arm.  He  just  looks  at  her — that's  all,  and  she 
smiles  back  at  him.  For  there's  no  worry  now  on  his 
face,  no  business  trouble  to  cut  lines  on  his  brow.  But 
sometimes — he  wonders;  and  then  she  just  smiles  at 
him,  and  his  doubts  vanish.  They  never  put  it  into 
words  those  two,  and  perhaps  it  is  as  well.  ...  A 
smile  is  so  easy,  it  conceals  so  much.  Not  that  there's 
much  to  hide  on  her  part.  With  her  eyes  wide  open 
she  made  her  choice,  and  assuredly  it  had  been  worth 
while.  Her  father  was  happy ;  the  old  house  was  safe 
and  her  husband  was  kind.  .  .  .  Only  as  the  car  glides 
away  from  the  door,  her  grey  eyes  once  again  rest  on 
a  weeping  willow.  A  fat  old  carp  rises  with  a  splash 
and  she  sees  the  ripples  widening.  .  .  .  And  the  smile 
fades  from  her  lips,  because — well,  thoughts  are  ca- 
pricious things,  and  the  weeping  willow  and  the  carp 
remind  her  of  a  certain  afternoon,  and  what  a  certain 
foolish  weaver  of  fantasies  said  to  her  .  .  .  once 
in  the  long  ago.  Much  has  she  got — much  has  she 
given  to  others.  It  may  have  been  worth  while — but 
she  has  lost  the  biggest  thing  in  Life.  That  has 
passed  her  by.  ..." 

"The  biggest  thing  in  Life,"  she  whispered.  "I 
wonder;  oh!  I  wonder." 

"Maybe  she  would  never  have  found  it,"  he  went  on, 
"even  if  she  had  not  married  the  man  of  great  possess- 


MUFTI  165 

ions.  And  then,  indeed,  she  could  have  said  with 
reason — 'I  sure  have  made  a  damn  fool  of  myself/  To 
throw  away  the  chances  of  costly  furs  and  sparkling 
gems;  to  see  les  papillons  noirs  fluttering  round  her 
father's  head  in  increasing  numbers — and  not  to  find 
the  biggest  thing  in  Life  after  such  a  sacrifice — yes, 
that  would  be  too  cruel.  So,  on  balance,  perhaps  she 
had  chosen  wisely.  ..." 

"And  is  that  all?"  she  asked  him.  "Is  there  no 
other  course  ?"  She  leaned  towards  him,  and  her  lips 
were  parted  slightly.  For  a  moment  or  two  he  watched 
the  slow  rise  and  fall  of  her  bosom,  and  then  with  a 
short,  hard  laugh  he  turned  away. 

"You  want  a  lot  for  your  money,  my  lady,"  he  said, 
and  his  voice  shook  a  little.  "But  I  will  paint  you 
another  picture,  before  we  drift  through  the  branches 
back  to  the  boat-house  and — reality.  I  see  another 
house — just  an  ordinary  nice  comfortable  house — four 
reception,  ten  bed,  h  &  c.  laid  on,  with  garage.  Close 
to  good  golf  links.  A  girl  in  grey  is  standing  in  the 
hall,  leaning  over  a  pram  in  which  the  j  oiliest,  fattest 
boy  you've  ever  thought  of  is  sitting  and  generally  boss- 
ing the  entire  show.  He  is  reputed  by  his  nurse,  who  is 
old  enough  to  know  better,  to  have  just  spoken  his  first 
consecutive  sentence.  To  the  brutal  and  unimaginative 
father  who  is  outside  with  his  golf  clubs  it  had  sounded 
like  'Wum — wan!'  According  to  the  interpreter  it 
meant  that  he  wanted  an  egg  for  tea ;  and  it  was  being 
duly  entered  up  in  a  book  which  contained  spaces  for 
Baby's  first  tooth,  the  first  time  he  was  sick,  when  he 
smashed  his  first  toy — and  other  milestones  in  his  ca- 
reer. ...  Ah!  but  it's  a  jolly  house.  There  are  no 


i66  MUFTI 

crowds  of  men-servants  and  maid-servants;  there  is 
no  priceless  Limousine.  And  the  girl  just  wears  a  grey 
silk  jersey  with  a  belt,  and  a  grey  skirt  and  grey 
brogues.  And,  ye  Gods !  but  she  looks  topping,  as  she 
steps  out  to  join  the  brutal  man  outside.  Her  golf 
clubs  are  slung  over  her  shoulder,  and  together  they 
foot  it  to  the  first  tee.  .  .  .  He  is  just  scratch,  and  she 
.  .  .  let's  think.  .  .  ." 

"Eight  would  be  a  good  sort  of  handicap,"  mur- 
mured the  girl. 

"Eight  it  is,"  said  Vane.  "That  means  he  gives  her 
six  strokes,  and  generally  beats  her." 

"I'll  bet  he  doesn't,"  cried  the  girl. 

"You  must  not  interrupt  the  old  gipsy,  my  lady," 
rebuked  Vane.  "You  see,  it  doesn't  matter  to  those 
two  which  wins — not  a  little  bit,  for  the  most  impor- 
tant hole  in  the  course  is  the  tenth.  It's  a  short  hole, 
with  the  most  enormous  sand  bunker  guarding  the 
green  on  the  right.  And  though  for  nine  holes  neither 
of  them  has  sliced,  at  the  tenth  they  both  do.  And  if 
by  chance  one  of  them  doesn't,  that  one  loses  the  hole. 
You  see  it's  the  most  dreadful  bunker,  and  somehow 
they've  got  to  get  to  the  bottom  of  it.  Well — it  would 
be  quite  unfair  if  only  one  of  them  went  there — so  the 
non-slicer  loses  the  hole." 

The  girl's  face  was  dimpling  gloriously.  .   .  . 

"Then  when  they've  got  there — he  just  takes  her 
in  his  arms  and  kisses  her;  and  she  kisses  him.  Just 
now  and  then  she'll  whisper,  'My  dear,  my  dear — 
but  it's  good  to  be  alive,'  but  most  times  they  just  kiss. 
Then  they  go  on  and  finish  their  game.  Except  for 
that  interlude  they  are  really  very  serious  golfers." 


MUFTI  167 

"And  when  they've  finished  their  game — what 
then?" 

"They  go  back  and  have  tea — a  big  fat  tea  with 
lots  of  scones  and  Devonshire  cream.  And  then,  after 
tea,  the  man  goes  round  to  the  garage  and  gets  the  car. 
Just  a  jolly  little  two-seater  that  does  fifty  on  the  level. 
The  girl  gets  in  and  they  drive  away  to  where  the 
purple  heather  merges  into  the  violet  of  the  moors! 
And  it's  great.  Perhaps  they'll  come  back  to  dinner,  or 
perhaps  they'll  have  it  somewhere  and  come  home 
when  the  sun  has  set  and  the  stars  are  gleaming  above 
them  like  a  thousand  silver  lamps.  They  don't  know 
what  they're  going  to  do  when  they  start — and  they 
don't  care.  They'll  just  be  together,  and  that's  enough. 
...  Of  course  they're  very  foolish  and  inconsequent 
people.  .  .  ." 

"Ah!  but  they're  not,"  she  cried  quickly.  "They're 
just  the  wisest  people  in  the  world.  Only  don't  you  see 
that  one  day  after  their  golf  they  drive  on  and  on,  and 
suddenly  it  seemed  to  the  girl  in  grey  that  the  road 
was  getting  familiar?  There  was  an  old  church  she 
recognised  and  lots  of  landmarks.  And  then  suddenly 
they  drive  past  some  lodge  gates,  and  there — in  the 
middle  of  the  road — stands  a  dreadful  man  smoking  a 
cigar  with  a  band  round  it.  All  the  glory  has  gone 
from  the  drive,  and  the  girl  feels  numb  and  sick  and 
mad  with  fury.  ..." 

"But  that  was  bad  steering  on  the  man's  part,"  said 
Vane.  "He  ought  to  have  avoided  that  road." 

"The  girl  could  never  avoid  it,  Derek,"  she  answered 
sadly.  "Even  in  the  bunker  at  the  tenth  she'd  be  see- 
ing that  cigar.  ..." 


168  MUFTI 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  said  Vane. 

"I  know  it,"  answered  the  girl. 

A  sudden  hail  of  "Joan"  came  ringing  over  the 
water,  and  she  gave  an  answering  hail. 

"There's  Dad,"  she  said.  "I  suppose  we  ought  to 
be  going.  ..." 

With  a  sigh  Vane  rose  and  stood  over  her.  "Come 
on,"  he  laughed,  holding  out  his  hand  to  help  her  up. 
"And  then  I'll  untie  the  boat.  ..." 

He  swung  her  up  beside  him  and  for  a  moment 
they  looked  into  one  another's  eyes. 

"I  hope,"  he  said,  "that  you'll  be  happy,  my  dear, 
so  happy."  And  his  voice  was  very  tender.  .  .  . 

They  rowed  back  towards  the  boat-house,  where 
Sir  James  was  waiting  for  them. 

"Come  and  have  tea,  you  two,"  he  cried  cheerily, 
and  Joan  waved  her  hand  at  him.  Then  she  looked  at 
Vane. 

"It's  been  a  wonderful  afternoon  of  make-believe," 
she  said  softly.  "I've  just  loved  it.  ..."  Vane  said 
nothing,  but  just  as  they  were  stepping  out  of  the  boat 
he  took  her  arm  gently. 

"Are  you  quite  certain,  lady,"  he  whispered,  "that  it 
must  be — make-believe?  ..." 

For  a  while  she  stood  motionless,  and  then  she 
smiled.  "Why,  of  course.  .  .  .  There's  your  beaten 
track  to  find,  and  there's  She  who  must  be  obeyed. 
And  there's  also.  ..." 

"The  cigar  with  the  band  round  it."  Vane's  hand 
dropped  to  his  side.  "Perhaps  you're  right.  ..." 

They  strolled  together  towards  Sir  James.  And  it 
was  just  before  they  came  within  earshot  that  Vane 


MUFTI  169 

spoke  again.    "Would  you  care  to  play  the  game  again, 
grey  girl?" 

"Why,  yes,"  she  said,  "I  think  I  would.  ...  I  think 
I  would." 


CHAPTER  XI 

DURING  the  days  that  followed  his  afternoon  on 
the  lake  at  Blandford  Vane  found  himself 
thinking  a  good  deal  more  of  Joan  than  augured  well 
for  his  peace  of  mind.  He  had  been  over  to  call,  and 
had  discovered  that  she  had  gone  North  very  suddenly, 
and  it  was  not  certain  when  she  would  return.  And 
so  he  escaped  from  Aunt  Jane  as  soon  as  he  politely 
could,  and  strolled  back  through  the  woods,  conscious 
of  a  sense  of  acute  disappointment. 

He  went  to  his  customary  hiding  place  by  the  little 
waterfall,  and,  lighting  his  pipe  sat  down  on  the  grass. 

"My  son,"  he  murmured  to  himself,  "you'd  better 
take  a  pull.  Miss  Joan  Devereux  is  marrying  a  mil- 
lionaire to  save  the  family.  You  are  marrying  Mar- 
garet Trent — and  it  were  better  not  to  forget  those 
two  simple  facts.  ..." 

He  pulled  Margaret's  letter  out  of  his  pocket,  and 
started  to  read  it  through  again.  But  after  a  moment 
it  dropped  unheeded  on  the  ground  beside  him,  and  he 
sat  motionless,  staring  at  the  pool.  He  did  not  see  the 
green  of  the  undergrowth;  he  did  not  hear  a  thrush 
pouring  out  its  little  soul  from  a  bush  close  by.  He 
saw  a  huddled,  shapeless  thing  sagging  into  a  still 
smoking  crater;  he  heard  the  drone  of  engines  dying 
faintly  in  the  distance  and  a  voice  whispering,  "The 
devils  .  .  .  the  vile  devils." 

And  then  another  picture  took  its  place — the  picture 
170 


MUFTI  171 

of  a  girl  in  grey,  lying  back  on  a  mass  of  cushions, 
with  a  faint  mocking  light  in  her  eyes,  and  a  smile 
which  hovered  now  and  then  round  her  lips.  .  .  . 

A  very  wise  old  frog  regarded  him  for  a  moment 
and  then  croaked  derisively.  "Go  to  the  devil,"  said 
Vane.  "Compared  with  Margaret,  what  has  the  other 
one  done  in  this  war  that  is  worth  doing?" 

"You  must  be  even  more  damn  foolish  than  most 
humans,"  it  remarked,  "if  you  try  to  make  yourself 
think  that  the  way  of  a  man  with  a  maid  depends  on 
the  doing  of  things  that  are  worth  while."  The  speak- 
er plopped  joyfully  into  the  pool,  and  Vane  savagely 
beheaded  a  flower  with  his  stick. 

"C-r-rick,  C-r-rick,"  went  the  old  frog,  who  had 
come  up  for  a  breather,  and  Vane  threw  a  stone  at  it. 
Try  as  he  would  he  could  not  check  a  thought  which 
rioted  through  his  brain,  and  made  his  heart  pound  like 
a  mad  thing.  Supposing — just  supposing.  .  .  . 

"Then  why  did  she  go  up  North  so  suddenly,"  jeered 
the  frog.  "Without  even  leaving  you  a  line?  She's 
just  been  amusing  you  and  herself  in  her  professional 
capacity." 

Vane  swore  gently  and  rose  to  his  feet.  "You're 
perfectly  right,  my  friend,"  he  remarked;  "perfectly 
right.  She's  just  an  ordinary  common  or  garden  flirt, 
and  we'll  cut  it  right  out.  We  will  resume  our  studies, 
old  bean ;  we  will  endeavour  to  find  out  by  what  pos- 
sible method  Bolshevism — vide  her  august  papa — can 
be  kept  from  the  country.  As  a  precautionary  meas- 
ure, a  first-class  ticket  to  Timbuctoo,  in  case  we  fail  in 
our  modest  endeavour,  might  be  a  good  specula- 
tion. .  .  ." 

For  a  moment  he  stood  motionless,  staring  into  the 


172  MUFTI 

cool  shadows  of  the  wood,  while  a  curious  smile  played 
over  his  face.  And  may  be,  in  spite  of  his  derisive 
critic,  who  still  croaked  from  the  edge  of  the  pool,  his 
thoughts  were  not  entirely  centred  on  his  proposed 
modest  endeavour.  Then  with  a  short  laugh  he  turned 
on  his  heel,  and  strode  back  towards  Rumfold. 

Two  days  later  he  found  himself  once  again  before 
a  Medical  Board.  Space,  even  in  convalescent  homes, 
was  at  a  premium,  and  Vane,  to  his  amazement,  found 
himself  granted  a  month's  sick  leave,  at  the  expiration 
of  which  he  was  to  go  before  yet  another  Board.  And 
so  having  shaken  hands  with  Lady  Patterdale  and  suf- 
fered Sir  John  to  explain  the  war  to  him  for  nearly 
ten  minutes,  Vane  departed  for  London  and  Half 
Moon  Street. 

He  wrote  Margaret  a  long  letter  in  reply  to  hers 
telling  him  of  her  decision  to  take  up  medicine.  He 
explained,  what  was  no  more  than  the  truth,  that  her 
suggestion  had  taken  him  completely  by  surprise,  but 
that  if  she  considered  that  she  had  found  her  particular 
job  he,  for  one,  would  most  certainly  not  attempt  to 
dissuade  her.  With  regard  to  himself,  however,  the 
matter  was  somewhat  different.  At  present  he  failed 
to  see  any  budding  literary  signs,  and  his  few  efforts 
in  the  past  had  not  been  of  the  nature  which  led  him 
to  believe  that  he  was  likely  to  prove  a  formidable 
rival  to  Galsworthy  or  Arnold  Bennett.  .  .  . 

"I'm  reading  'em  all,  Margaret — the  whole  blessed 
lot.  And  it  seems  to  me  that  with  the  world  as  it  is 
at  present,  bread-and-butter  is  wanted,  not  caviare. 
-.  .  .  But  probably  the  mistake  is  entirely  mine.  There 
seems  to  me  to  be  a  spirit  of  revolt  in  the  air,  which 


MUFTI  173 

gives  one  most  furiously  to  think.  Everybody  dis- 
trusts everybody  else;  everybody  wants  to  change — 
and  they  don't  know  what  they  want  to  change  to. 
There  doesn't  seem  to  be  any  single  connected  idea  as 
to  .what  is  wanted — or  how  to  get  it.  The  only  thing 
on  which  everyone  seems  agreed  is  More  Money  and 
Less  Work.  .  .  .  Surely  to  Heaven  there  must  be  a 
way  out;  some  simple  way  out.  We  didn't  have  this 
sort  of  thing  over  the  water.  We  were  pals  over 
there;  but  here  every  single  soul  loathes  every  other 
single  soul  like  poison.  .  .  .  Can  it  be  that  only  by 
going  back  to  the  primitive,  as  we  had  to  do  in  France, 
can  one  find  happiness?  The  idea  is  preposterous. 
.  .  .  And,  yet,  now  that  I'm  here  and  have  been  here 
these  months,  I'm  longing  to  come  back.  I'm  sick  of 
it.  Looking  at  this  country  with  what  I  call  my  French 
eyes — it  nauseates  me.  It  seems  so  utterly  petty.  .  .  . 
What  the  devil  are  we  fighting  for?  It's  going  to  be  a 
splendid  state  of  affairs,  isn't  it,  if  the  immediate  re- 
sult of  beating  the  Boche  is  anarchy  over  here ?  .  .  . " 
And  one  feels  that  it  oughtn't  to  be  so ;  one  feels  that 
it's  Gilbertian  to  the  pitch  of  frenzied  lunacy.  You've 
seen  those  boys  in  hospital ;  I've  seen  'em  in  the  line — 
and  they've  struck  me,  as  they  have  you,  as  God's 
elect.  .  .  .  Then  why,  WHY,  WHY,  in  the  name  of  all 
that  is  marvellous,  is  this  state  of  affairs  existing  over 
here?  .  .  . 

"I  went  to  lunch  with  Sir  James  Devereux  before  I 
left  Rum  fold.  A  nice  old  man,  but  money,  or  rather 
the  lack  of  it,  is  simply  rattling  its  bones  in  the  family 
cupboard.  ..." 

Vane  laid  down  his  pen  as  he  came  to  this  point,  and 


174  MUFTI 

began  to  trace  patterns  idly  on  the  blotting  paper. 
After  a  while  he  turned  to  the  sheet  again. 

"His  daughter  seems  very  nice — also  his  sister,  who 
is  stone  deaf.  One  screams  at  her  through  a  mega- 
phone. He,  of  course,  rants  and  raves  at  what  he 
calls  the  lack  of  patriotism  shown  by  the  working 
man.  Fears  an  organised  strike — financed  by  enemy 
money — if  not  during,  at  any  rate  after,  the  war.  The 
country  at  a  standstill — anarchy,  Bolshevism.  'Pon 
my  soul,  I  can't  help  thinking  he's  right.  As  soon  as 
men,  even  the  steadiest,  have  felt  the  power  of  strik- 
ing— what  will  stop  them?  .  .  .  And  as  he  says, 
they've  had  the  most  enormous  concessions.  By  Jove ! 
lady — it  sure  does  make  me  sick  and  tired.  .  .  . 

"However,  in  pursuance  of  your  orders  delivered 
verbally  on  the  beach  at  Paris  Plage,  I  am  persevering 
in  my  endeavours  to  find  the  beaten  track.  I  am 
lunching  to-day  with  Nancy  Smallwood,  who  has  a 
new  craze.  You  remember  at  one  time  it  used  to  be 
keeping  parrots — and  then  she  went  through  a  phase 
of  distributing  orchids  through  the  slums  of  White- 
chapel,  to  improve  the  recipients'  aesthetic  sense.  She 
only  gave  that  up,  I  have  always  understood,  when 
she  took  to  wearing  black  underclothes ! 

"I  met  her  yesterday  in  Bond  Street,  and  she  tackled 
me  at  once. 

"  'You  must  lunch  to-morrow  .  .  .  Savoy  .  .  .  1.15 
.  .  .  Meet  Mr.  Ramage,  Labour  leader  .  .  .  Intensely 
interesting.  ..." 

"You  know  how  she  talks,  like  a  hen  clucking. 
'Coming,  man.  .  .  .  Has  already  arrived,  in  fact.  .  .  . 
One  must  make  friends  with  the  mammon  of  unright- 
eousness these  days.  .  .  .Life  may  depend  on  it.  ... 


MUFTI  175 

He's  such  a  dear,  too.  .  >  >  Certain  he'll  never  let 
these  dreadful  men  kill  me.  .  .  .  But  I  always  give  him 
the  very  best  lunch  I  can.  .  .  .  In  case,  you  know.  .  .  . 
Good-bye/ 

"I  feel  that  she  will  sort  of  put  down  each  course  on 
the  credit  side  of  the  ledger,  and  hope  that,  if  the  total 
proves  sufficiently  imposing,  she  may  escape  with  the 
loss  of  an  arm  when  the  crash  comes.  She'll  probably 
send  the  receipted  bills  to  Ramage  by  special  messen- 
ger. .  .  .  I'm  rather  interested  to  meet  the  man.  Sir 
James  was  particularly  virulent  over  what  he  called 
the  intellectuals.  .  .  . 

"Well,  dear,  I  must  go.  Don't  do  too  much  and 
overtire  yourself.  .  .  ."  He  strolled  out  of  the  smok- 
ing-room and  posted  the  letter.  Then,  refusing  the 
offer  of  a  passing  taxi,  he  turned  along  Pall  Mall  on 
his  way  to  the  Savoy. 

As  Vane  had  said  in  his  letter,  Nancy  Smallwood  had 
a  new  craze.  She  passed  from  one  to  another  with  a 
bewildering  rapidity  which  tried  her  friends  very 
highly.  The  last  one  of  which  Vane  had  any  knowl- 
edge was  when  she  insisted  on  keeping  a  hen  and  feed- 
ing it  with  a  special  preparation  of  her  own  to  increase 
its  laying  capacity.  This  necessitated  it  being  kept  in 
the  drawing-room,  as  otherwise  she  forgot  all  about  it; 
and  Vane  had  a  vivid  recollection  of  a  large  and  in- 
credibly stout  bird  with  a  watery  and  furtive  eye  en- 
sconced on  cushions  near  the  piano. 

But  that  was  years  ago,  and  now  the  mammon  of 
unrighteousness,  as  she  called  it,  apparently  held  sway. 
He  wondered  idly  as  he  walked  along  what  manner  of 
man  Ramage  would  prove  to  be.  Everyone  whom  he 


176  MUFTI 

had  ever  met  called  down  curses  on  the  man's  head,  but 
as  far  as  he  could  remember  he  had  never  heard  him 
described.  Nor  did  he  recollect  ever  having  seen  a 
photograph  of  him.  "Probably  dressed  in  corduroy," 
he  reflected,  "and  eats  peas  with  his  knife.  Damn 
clever  thing  to  do  too;  I  mustn't  forget  to  congratulate 
him  if  he  does.  .  .  ." 

He  turned  in  at  the  courtyard  of  the  hotel,  glancing 
round  for  Nancy  Smallwood.  He  saw  her  almost  at 
once,  looking  a  little  worried.  Incidentally  she  always 
did  look  worried,  with  that  sort  of  helpless  pathetic  air 
with  which  very  small  women  compel  very  big  men  to 
go  to  an  infinity  of  trouble  over  things  which  bore  them 
to  extinction. 

"My  dear  man/'  she  cried  as  he  came  up  to  her. 
"Mr.  Ramage  hasn't  come  yet.  .  .  >  And  he's  always 
so  punctual.  ..." 

"Then  let  us  have  a  cocktail,  Nancy,  to  keep  the  cold 
out  till  he  does."  He  hailed  a  passing  waiter.  "Tell 
me,  what  sort  of  a  fellow  is  he?  I'm  rather  curious 
about  him." 

"My  dear,"  she  answered,  "he's  the  most  fascinating 
man  in  the  world."  She  clasped  her  hands  together 
and  gazed  at  Vane  impressively.  "So  wonderfully 
clever  ...  so  quiet  ...  so  ...  so  ...  gentle- 
manly. I  am  so  glad  you  could  come.  You  would 
never  think  for  a  moment  when  you  saw  him  that  he 
sympathised  with  all  these  dreadful  Bolsheviks  and 
Soviets  and  things;  and  that  he  disapproved  of  money 
and  property  and  everything  that  makes  life  worth 
living.  .  .  .  Sometimes  he  simply  terrifies  me,  Derek." 
She  sipped  her  cocktail  plaintively.  "But  I  feel  it's 
my  duty  to  make  a  fuss  of  him  and  feed  him  and  that 


MUFTI  177 

sort  of  thing,  for  all  our  sakes.  It  may  make  him 
postpone  the  Revolution.  .  .  . " 

Vane  suppressed  a  smile,  and  lit  a  cigarette  gravely. 
"They'll  probably  give  you  a  vote  of  thanks  in  Parlia- 
ment, Nancy,  to  say  nothing  of  an  O.B.E.  .  .  .  Inci- 
dentally does  the  fellow  eat  all  right?" 

With  a  gesture  of  horrified  protest,  Nancy  Small- 
wood  sat  back  in  her  chair.  "My  dear  Derek,"  she 
murmured.  ...  "Far,  far  better  than  you  and  I  do. 
I  always  mash  my  bread  sauce  up  with  the  vegetables 
if  no  one's  looking,  and  I'm  certain  he  never  would. 
He's  most  respectable.  .  .  ." 

"My  God!"  said  Vane,  "as  bad  as  that?  I  was 
hoping  he'd  eat  peas  with  his  knife." 

She  looked  towards  the  door  and  suddenly  stood  up. 
"Here  he  is,  coming  down  the  stairs  now.  .  ..."  She 
held  out  her  hand  to  him  as  he  came  up.  "I  was* 
afraid  you  weren't  going  to  come,  Mr.  Ramage." 

"Am  I  late?"  he  answered,  glancing  at  his  watch. 
"A  thousand  apologies,  Mrs.  Smallwood.  ...  A  com-* 
mittee  meeting.  .  .  . " 

He  turned  towards  Vane  and  she  introduced  the 
two  men,  who  followed  her  into  the  restaurant.  And 
in  his  first  quick  glance  Vane  was  conscious  of  a  cer- 
tain disappointment,  and  a  distinct  feeling  of  surprise. 

Far  from  being  clad  in  corduroy,  Ramage  had  on  a 
very  respectable  morning  coat.  In  fact,  it  struck  him 
that  Nancy  Smallwood's  remark  exactly  described 
him.  He  looked  most  respectable — not  to  say  dull. 
By  no  stretch  of  imagination  could  Vane  imagine  him 
as  the  leader  of  a  great  cause.  He  might  have  been 
a  country  lawyer,  or  a  general  practitioner,  or  any  of 
those  eminently  worthy  things  with  which  utility 


178  MUFTI 

rather  than  brilliance  is  generally  associated.  He  re- 
called what  he  had  read  in  the  papers — paragraphs 
describing  meetings  at  which  Mr.  Ramage  had  taken 
a  prominent  part,  and  his  general  recollection  of  most 
of  them  seemed  to  be  summed  up  in  the  one  sentence 
.  .  .  "the  meeting  then  broke  up  in  disorder,  Mr. 
Ramage  escaping  with  difficulty  through  a  window  at 
the  back."  Somehow  he  could  not  see  this  decorous 
gentleman  opposite  escaping  through  windows  under 
a  barrage  of  bad  eggs.  He  failed  to  fill  the  part  com- 
pletely. As  a  cashier  in  a  local  bank  gravely  informing 
a  customer  that  his  account  was  overdrawn — yes ;  but 
as  a  fighter,  as  a  man  who  counted  for  something  in 
the  teeming  world  around — why  no.  ...  Not  as  far 
as  appearance  went,  at  any  rate.  And  at  that  moment 
the  eyes  of  the  two  men  met  for  an  instant  across  the 
table.  ... 

It  seemed  to  Vane  almost  as  if  he  had  received  a 
blow — so  sudden  was  the  check  to  his  mental  ram- 
bling. For  the  eyes  of  the  man  opposite,  deep  set  and 
gleaming,  were  the  eyes  of  greatness,  and  they  tri- 
umphed so  completely  over  their  indifferent  setting 
that  Vane  marvelled  at  his  previous  obtuseness.  Mar- 
tyrs have  had  such  eyes,  and  the  great  pioneers  of  the 
world — men  who  have  deemed  everything  well  lost 
for  a  cause,  be  that  cause  right  or  wrong.  And  almost 
as  if  he  were  standing  there  in  the  flesh,  there  came 
to  him  a  vision  of  Sir  James  raving  furiously  against 
this  man. 

He  watched  him  with  a  slightly  puzzled  frown  for 
a  moment.  This  was  the  man  who  was  deliberately 
leading  the  masses  towards  discontent  and  revolt ;  this 
was  the  man  of  intellect  who  was  deliberately  using 


MUFTI  179 

his  gift  to  try  to  ruin  the  country.  ...  So  Sir  James 
had  said;  so  Vane  had  always  understood.  And  his 
frown  grew  more  puzzled. 

Suddenly  Ramage  turned  and  spoke  to  him.  A 
faint  smile  hovered  for  a  second  around  his  lips,  as 
if  he  had  noticed  the  frown  and  interpreted  its  cause 
aright. 

"Things  seem  to  be  going  very  well  over  the  water, 
Captain  Vane." 

"Very  well,"  said  Vane  abruptly.  "I  think  we've 
got  those  arch  swine  beaten  at  last — without  the  help 
of  a  negotiated  peace." 

For  a  moment  the  deep-set  eyes  gleamed,  and  then, 
once  more,  a  faint  smile  hovered  on  his  face.  "Of 
which  much  maligned  substitute  for  war  you  doubtless 
regard  me  as  one  of  the  High  Priests?" 

"Such  is  the  general  opinion,  Mr.  Ramage." 

"And  you  think,"  returned  the  other  after  a  mo- 
ment, "that  the  idea  was  so  completely  wrong  as  to 
have  justified  the  holders  of  the  opposite  view  ex- 
pending— what,  another  two  .  .  .  three  million 
lives?"  .  .  . 

"I  am  afraid,"  answered  Vane  a  little  curtly,  "that 
I'm  in  no  position  to  balance  any  such  account.  Th£ 
issues  involved  are  a  little  above  my  form.  All  I  do 
know  is,  that  our  dead  would  have  turned  in  their 
graves  had  we  not  completed  their  work.  ..." 

"I  wonder?"  said  the  other  slowly.  "It  always 
seems  to  me  that  the  dead  are  saddled  with  very  blood- 
thirsty opinions.  .  .  .  One  sometimes  thinks,  when 
one  is  in  a  particularly  foolish  mood,  that  the  dead 
might  have  learned  a  little  common  sense.  .  .  .  Very 
optimistic,  but  still.  .  .  ." 


i8o  MUFTI 

"If  they  have  learned  anything,"  answered  Vane 
gravely,  "our  dead  over  the  water — they  have  learned 
the  sublime  lesson  of  pulling  together.  It  seems  a  pity, 
Mr.  Ramage,  that  a  few  of  'em  can't  come  back  again 
and  preach  the  sermon  here  in  England." 

"Wouldn't  it  be  too  wonderful?"  chirruped  their 
hostess.  "Think  of  going  to  St.  Paul's  and  being 
preached  to  by  a  ghost.  ..."  For  the  past  minute 
she  had  been  shooting  little  bird-like  glances  at  a 
neighboring  table,  and  now  she  leaned  forward  im- 
pressively. "There  are  some  people  over  there,  Mr. 
Ramage,  and  I'm  sure  they  recognise  you."  This  was 
better,  far  better,  than  feeding  a  hen  in  the  drawing- 
room. 

He  turned  to  her  with  a  faintly  amused  smile.  "How 
very  annoying  for  you !  I  am  so  sorry.  .  .  .  Shall  I 
go  away,  and  then  you  can  discuss  my  sins  in  a  loud 
voice  with  Captain  Vane?" 

Nancy  Smallwood  shook  an  admonishing  finger  at 
him,  and  sighed  pathetically.  "Do  go  on  talking,  you 
two.  I  do  so  love  to  hear  about  these  things,  and  I'm 
so  stupid  myself.  .  .  ." 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  Nancy,"  laughed  Vane,  "don't 
put  me  amongst  the  highbrows.  I'm  groping  .  .  . 
crumbs  from  rich  man's  table  sort  of  business." 

"Groping?"  Ramage  glanced  at  him  across  the 
table. 

"Yes,"  said  Vane  taking  the  bull  by  the  horns. 
" Wondering  why  the  devil  we  fought  if  the  result  is 
going  to  be  anarchy  in  England.  Over  there  every- 
body seems  to  be  pals ;  here.  .  .  .  Great  Scott !"  He 
shrugged  his  shoulders.  After  a  while  he  went  on — 
"Over  there  we  got  rid  of  class  hatred;  may  I  ask  you, 


MUFTI  181 

Mr.  Ramage,  without  meaning  in  any  way  to  be  offen- 
sive, why  you're  doing  your  utmost  to  stir  it  up  over 
here?" 

The  other  put  down  his  knife  and  fork  and  stared  at 
Vane  thoughtfully.  "Because,"  he  remarked  in  a  curi- 
ously deep  voice,  "that  way  lies  the  salvation  of  the 
world.  .  .  ." 

"The  machine-gun  at  the  street  corner,"  answered 
Vane  cynically,  "is  certainly  the  way  to  salvation  for 
quite  a  number." 

Ramage  took  no  notice  of  the  interruption.  "If  la- 
bour had  controlled  Europe  in  1914,  do  you  suppose 
we  should  have  had  a  war?  As  it  was,  a  few  men 
were  capable  of  ordering  millions  to  their  death.  Can 
you  seriously  contend  that  such  a  state  of  affairs  was 
not  absolutely  rotten?" 

"But  are  you  going  to  alter  it  by  fanning  class  ha- 
tred?" demanded  Vane,  going  back  to  his  old  point. 

"Not  if  it  can  be  avoided.  But — the  issue  lies  in 
the  hands  of  the  present  ruling  class.  ..." 

Vane  raised  his  eyebrows.  "I  have  generally  un- 
derstood that  it  was  Labour  who  was  bringing  things 
to  a  head." 

"It  rather  depends  on  the  way  you  look  at  it,  doesn't 
it?  If  I  possess  a  thing  which  by  right  is  yours,  and 
you  demand  the  return  of  it,  which  of  us  two  is  really 
responsible  for  the  subsequent  fight?" 

"And  what  does  the  present  ruling  class  possess 
which  Labour  considers  should  be  returned  to  it?" 
asked  Vane  curiously. 

"The  bond  note  of  slavery,"  returned  the  other.  "If 
the  present  rulers  will  tear  up  that  bond — willingly 
and  freely — there  will  be  no  fight.  ...  If  not  .  .  ." 


i8a  MUFTI 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Labour  may  be  forcing 
that  issue,  Captain  Vane;  but  it  will  be  the  other  man 
who  is  responsible  if  the  fight  comes.  .  .  .  Labour 
demands  fair  treatment — not  as  a  concession,  but  as 
a  right — and  Labour  has  felt  its  power.  It  will  get 
that  treatment — peacefully,  if  possible;  but  if  not" — 
and  a  light  blazed  in  his  eyes — "it  will  get  it  by  force." 

"And  the  referee  as  to  what  is  just  is  Labour  it- 
self," said  Vane  slowly;  "in  spite  of  the  fact  that  it's 
the  other  man  who  is  running  the  financial  risk  and 
paying  the  piper.  It  sounds  wonderfully  fair,  doesn't 
it?  Surely  some  rights  must  go  with  property — 
whether  it's  land  or  a  coal  mine,  or  a  bucket  shop. 
.  .  .  Surely  the  owner  must  have  the  principal  say  in 
calling  the  tune."  For  a  few  moments  he  stared  at 
the  man  opposite  him,  and  then  he  went  on  again,  with 
increasing  earnestness — with  almost  a  note  of  appeal 
in  his  voice.  "I  want  to  get  at  your  point  of  view,  Mr. 
Ramage — I  want  to  understand  you.  .  .  .  And  I  don't. 
There  are  thousands  of  men  like  me  who  have  been 
through  this  war — who  have  seen  the  glory  underneath 
the  dirt — who  want  to  understand  too.  We  hoped — 
we  still  hope — that  a  new  England  would  grow  out  of 
it;  but  somehow  .  .  ."  Vane  laughed  shortly,  and 
took  out  his  cigarette  case. 

"And  we  are  going  to  get  that  new  England  for 
which  you  have  fought,"  burst  out  the  other  triumph- 
antly. Then  with  a  slight  smile  he  looked  at  Vane. 
"We  must  not  forget  our  surroundings — I  see  a  waiter 
regarding  me  suspiciously.  Thanks — no;  I  don't 
smoke."  He  traced  a  pattern  idly  on  the  cloth  for  a 
moment,  and  then  looked  up  quickly.  "I  would  like 
you  to  try  to  understand,"  he  said.  "Because,  as  I 


MUFTI  183 

said,  the  whole  question  of  possible  anarchy  as  opposed 
to  a  constitutional  change  lies  in  your  hands  and  the 
hands  of  your  class/' 

Vane  gave  a  short,  incredulous  laugh,  and  shook  his 
head. 

"In  jour  hands/'  repeated  the  other  gravely.  "You 
see,  Captain  Vane,  we  approach  this  matter  from  a 
fundamentally  different  point  of  view.  You  look 
around  you,  and  you  see  men  striking  here  and  striking 
there.  And  you  say  'Look  at  the  swine;  striking 
again!'  But  there's  one  thing  that  you  fail  to  grasp, 
I  think.  Underneath  all  these  strikes  and  violent  up- 
heavals, bursting  into  flame  in  all  sorts  of  unexpected 
places — there  is  the  volcano  of  a  vital  conflict  between 
two  fundamental  ideas.  Though  the  men  hardly  real- 
ise it  themselves,  it's  there,  that  conflict,  all  the  time. 
.  .  .  And  we,  who  see  a  little  further  than  the  mob, 
know  that  it's  there,  and  that  sooner  or  later  that  con- 
flict will  end  in  victory  for  one  side  or  the  other. 
Which  side,  my  friend  ?  Yours  or  ours.  ...  Or  both. 
Yours  and  ours.  .  .  .  England's."  He  paused  for  a 
moment  as  the  waiter  handed  him  the  coffee.  Then 
he  went  on — "To  the  master-class  generally  there  is  a 
certain  order  of  things,  and  they  can  imagine  nothing 
else.  They  employ  workers — they  pay  them,  or  they 
'chuck'  them,  as  they  like.  They  hold  over  them  abso- 
lute power.  They  are  kind  in  many  cases;  they  help 
and  look  after  their  employees.  But  they  are  the  mas- 
ters— and  the  others  are  the  men.  That  is  the  only 
form  of  society  they  can  conceive  of.  Any  mitigation 
of  conditions  is  simply  a  change  within  the  old  order. 
That  is  one  point  of  view.  .  .  .  Now  for  the  other." 


184  MUFTI 

He  turned  with  a  smile  to  his  hostess.     "I  hope  I'm 
not  boring  you.  ..." 

"Why,  I'm  thrilled  to  death,"  she  cried,  hurriedly 
collecting  her  thoughts  from  an  adjacent  hat.  "Do 
go  on." 

"The  other  point  of  view  is  this.  We  do  not  wish 
for  mitigation  of  conditions  in  a  system  which  we  con- 
sider wrong.  We  want  the  entire  system  swept  away. 
.  .  .  We  want  the  entire  propertied  class  removed. 
We  deny  that  there  are  any  inherent  rights  which  go 
with  the  possession  of  property;  and  even  if  there  are, 
we  claim  that  the  rights  of  the  masses  far  outweigh  the 
property  rights  of  the  small  minority  of  owners.  .  .  ." 

"In  other  words,"  said  Vane  briefly,  "you  claim  for 
the  masses  the  right  to  commit  robbery  on  a  large 
scale." 

"For  just  so  long  as  that  view  of  robbery  holds, 
Captain  Vane,  for  just  so  long  will  there  fail  to  be 
any  real  co-operation  between  you  and  us.  For  just  so 
long  as  you  are  convinced  that  your  vested  right  is  the 
true  one,  and  that  ours  is  false — for  just  so  long  will 
the  final  settlement  by  quiet  methods  be  postponed. 
But  if  you  make  it  too  long  the  final  settlement  will 
not  come  by  quiet  means." 

"Your  proposal,  then,  is  that  we  should  commit 
suicide  with  a  good  grace  ?"  remarked  Vane.  "Really, 
Mr.  Ramage,  it  won't  do.  ...  I,  personally,  if  I 
owned  property,  would  go  into  the  last  ditch  in  defence 
of  what  was  mine."  Into  his  mind  there  flashed  Joan's 
words.  .  .  .  "It's  ours.  I  tell  you,  ours,"  and  he 
smiled  grimly.  "Why,  in  the  name  of  fortune,  I 
should  give  what  I  possess  to  a  crowd  of  scally  wags 


MUFTI  185 

who  haven't  made  good,  is  more  than  I  can  fath- 
om. .  .  ." 

"It  is  hardly  likely  to  go  as  far  as  that/'  said  the 
other  with  a  smile.  "But  the  time  is  coming  when  we 
shall  have  a  Labour  Government — a  Government 
which  at  heart  is  Socialistic.  And  theirjfrrst  move  will 
be  to  nationalise  all  the  big  industries.  Y  /V  How  far 
will  property  meet  them  and  help  them?  Will  they 
fight — or  will  they  co-operate  ?  .  .  .  It's  up  to  proper- 
ty to  decide.  ..." 

"Because  you  will  have  forced  the  issue,"  said  Vane; 
"an  issue  which,  I  maintain,  you  have  no  right  to 
force.  Robbery  is  robbery,  just  the  same  whether  it's 
sanctioned  by  an  Act  of  Parliament,  or  whether  it's 
performed  by  a  man  holding  a  gun  at  your  head.  .  .  . 
Why,  in  God's  name,  Mr.  Ramage,  can't  we  pull  to- 
gether for  the  side  ?  .  .  . " 

"With  you  as  the  leaders — the  kind  employers?" 

"With  those  men  as  the  leaders  who  have  shown 
that  they  can  lead,"  said  Vane  doggedly.  "They  will 
come  to  the  top  in  the  future  as  they  have  in  the 
past.  ..." 

"By  all  manner  of  means,"  cried  Ramage.  "Lead- 
ers— brains — will  always  rise  to  the  top;  will  always 
be  rewarded  more  highly  than  mere  manual  labour. 
.  .  .  They  will  occupy  more  remunerative  positions 
under  the  State.  .  .  .  But  the  fruits  of  labour  will 
only  be  for  those  who  do  the  work — be  it  with  their 
hands  or  be  it  with  their  heads.  The  profiteer  must 
go ;  the  private  owner  must  go  with  his  dole  here  and 
his  dole  there,  generally  forced  from  him  as  the  result 
of  a  strike.  I  would  be  the  last  to  say  that  there  are 
not  thousands  of  good  employers — but  there  are  also 


186  MUFTI 

thousands  of  bad  ones,  and  now  labour  refuses  to  run 
the  risk  any  more." 

"And  what  about  depreciation — fresh  plant? 
Where's  the  capital  coming  from  ?" 

"Why,  the  State.  It  requires  very  little  imagina- 
tion to  see  how  easy  it  would  be  to  put  away«a  certain 
sum  each  year  for  that.  ...  A  question  of  how  much 
you  charge  the  final  purchaser.  .  .  .  And  the  profiteer 
goes  out  of  the  picture.  .  .  .  That's  what  we're  aim- 
ing at;  that  is  what  is  coming.  .  .  .  No  more  men 
like  the  gentleman  sitting  three  tables  away — just  be- 
hind you ;  no  more  of  the  Baxters  fattening  on  sweated 
labour."  His  deep-set  eyes  were  gleaming  at  the  vision 
he  saw,  and  Vane  felt  a  sense  of  futility. 

"Even  assuming  your  view  is  right,  Mr.  Ramage," 
he  remarked  slowly,  "do  you  really  think  that  you,  and 
the  few  like  you,  will  ever  hold  the  mob?  .  .  .  You 
may  make  your  new  England,  but  you'll  make  it  over 
rivers  of  blood,  unless  we  all  of  us — you,  as  well  as 
we — see  through  the  glass  a  little  less  darkly  than  we 
do  now.  ..." 

"Every  great  movement  has  its  price,"  returned  the 
other,  staring  at  him  gravely. 

"Price !"  Vane's  laugh  was  short  and  bitter.  "Have 
you  ever  seen  a  battalion,  Mr.  Ramage,  that  has  been 
caught  under  machine-gun  fire  ?" 

"And  have  you,  Captain  Vane,  ever  seen  the  hovels 
in  which  some  of  our  workers  live?" 

"And  you  really  think  that  by  exchanging  private 
ownership  for  a  soulless  bureaucracy  you  find  salva- 
tion?" said  Vane  shortly.  "You're  rather  optimistic, 
aren't  you,  on  the  subject  of  Government  depart- 
ments? . 


MUFTI  187 

"I'm  not  thinking  of  ttijls  Government,  Captain 
Vane/'  he  remarked  quietly.  He  looked  at  his  watch 
and  rose.  "I'm  glad  to  have  met  you,"  he  said  holding 
out  his  hand.  "It's  the  vested  interest  that  is  at  the 
root  of  the  whole  evil — that  stands  between  the  old 
order  and  the  new.  Therefore  the  vested  interest 
must  go."  .  .  .  He  turned  to  his  hostess.  "I'm  sorry 
to  run  away  like  this,  Mrs.  Smallwood,  but — I'm  a 
busy  man.  .  .  ." 

She  rose  at  once;  nothing  would  have  induced  her 
to  forgo  walking  through  the  restaurant  with  him. 
Later  she  would  describe  the  progress  to  her  intimates 
in  her  usual  staccato  utterances,  like  a  goat  hopping 
from  crag  to  crag. 

"My  dear.  ...  So  thrilling.  .  .  .  He  means  whole- 
sale murder.  .  .  .  Told  us  so.  ...  And  there  was  a 
man  close  by,  watching  him  all  the  time.  ...  A 
Government  spy  probably.  ...  Do  you  think  I  shall 
be  arrested?  .  .  .  If  only  he  allows  Bill  and  me  to 
escape  when  it  comes.  .  .  .  The  revolution,  I  mean. 
...  I  think  Monte  is  the  place.  .  .  .  But  one  never 
knows.  .  .  .  Probably  the  croupiers  will  be  armed  with 
pistols,  or  something  dreadful.  .  .  .  Except  that  if 
it's  the  labouring  classes  who  are  rising,  we  ought  to 
shoot  the  croupiers.  .  .  .  It  is  so  difficult  to  know  what 
to  do." 

Vane  turned  to  follow  her,  as  she  threaded  her  way 
between  the  tables,  and  at  that  moment  he  saw  Joan. 
The  grey  eyes  were  fixed  on  him  mockingly,  and  he 
felt  as  if  everyone  in  the  room  must  hear  the  sudden 
thumping  of  his  heart.  With  a  murmured  apology  to 
his  hostess,  he  left  her  and  crossed  to  Joan's  table. 


188  MUFTI 

"This  is  an  unexpected  surprise,"  she  remarked  as 
he  came  up. 

"Do  you  know  Mr.  Baxter — Captain  Vane.  .   .   ." 

Vane  looked  curiously  at  the  man  who  had  invoked 
his  late  companion's  wrath.  Then  his  glance  fell  on 
the  bottle  of  Vichy  in  front  of  the  millionaire,  and  his 
jaw  tightened. 

"You  left  Blandford  very  unexpectedly,  Miss  Dev- 
ereux,"  he  said  politely. 

"Yes— I  had  to  go  North  suddenly."  She  looked  at 
him  with  a  smile.  "You  see — I  was  frightened.  ..." 

"Frightened.  ..."  murmured  Vane. 

"A  friend  of  mine — a  very  great  friend  of  mine — a 
girl,  was  in  danger  of  making  a  fool  of  herself."  Her 
eyes  were  fixed  on  the  band,  and  his  heart  began  to 
thump  again. 

"I  trust  the  catastrophe  was  averted,"  he  remarked. 

"One  never  knows  in  these  cases,  does  one?"  she 
answered.  He  saw  the  trace  of  a  smile  hover  on  her 
lips;  then  she  turned  to  her  companion.  "Captain 
Vane  was  one  of  the  convalescents  at  Rum  fold  Hall," 
she  explained. 

Mr.  Baxter  grunted.  "Going  over  again  soon?" 
he  asked  in  a  grating  voice. 

"I'm  on  leave  at  present,"  said  Vane  briefly. 

"Well,  if  you'll  forgive  my  saying  so,"  continued 
Baxter  in  his  harsh  voice,  "your  luncheon  companion 
to-day  is  a  gentleman  you  want  to  be  careful 
;with.  .  .  ." 

Vane  raised  his  eyebrows.  "You  are  more  than 
kind,"  he  murmured.  "But  I  think  .  .  ." 

Mr.  Baxter  waved  his  hand.    "I  mean  no  offence," 


MUFTI  189 

he  said.  "But  that  man  Ramage  is  one  of  the  men 
who  are  going  to  ruin  this  country.  .  .  . " 

"Funnily  enough,  Mr.  Baxter,  he  seems  to  be  of  the 
opinion  that  you  are  one  of  the  men  who  have  already 
done  so." 

The  millionaire,  in  no  wise  offended,  roared  with 
laughter.  Then  he  became  serious  again.  "The  old 
catchwords,"  he  grated.  "Bloated  capitalist — sweated 
labour,  growing  fat  on  the  bodies  and  souls  of  those 
we  employ.  .  .  .  Rot,  sir;  twaddle,  sir.  There's 
no  business  such  as  mine  would  last  for  one  moment 
if  I  didn't  look  after  my  workpeople.  Pure  selfishness 
on  my  part,  I  admit.  If  I  had  my  way  I'd  sack  the  lot 
and  instal  machines.  But  I  can't.  .  .  .  And  if  I 
could,  do  you  suppose  I'd  neglect  my  machine.  .  .  . 
Save  a  shilling  for  lubricating  oil  and  do  a  hundred 
pounds'  worth  of  damage?  Don't  you  believe  it,  Cap- 
tain Vane.  .  .  .  But,  I'll  be  damned  if  I'll  be  dictated 
to  by  the  man  I  pay.  ...  I  pay  them  a  fair  wage  and 
they  know  it.  And  if  I  have  any  of  this  rot  of  sym- 
pathetic strikes  after  the  war,  I'll  shut  everything  down 
for  good  and  let  'em  starve.  .  .  ."  He  looked  at 
Joan.  ...  "I  wouldn't  be  sorry  to  have  a  long  rest," 
he  continued  thoughtfully. 

"Captain  Vane  is  a  seeker  after  truth,"  she  re- 
marked. "It  must  be  most  valuable,"  she  turned  to 
Vane,  "to  hear  two  such  opinions  as  his  and  Mr.  Ram- 
age's  so  close  together."  Her  eyes  were  dancing 
merrily. 

"Most  valuable,"  returned  Vane.  "And  one  is  so 
struck  with  the  pugilistic  attitude  adopted  by  both  par- 
ties. ...  It  seems  so  extraordinarily  helpful  to  the 
smooth  running  of  the  country  afterwards."  He  had 


190  MUFTI 

no  occasion  to  like  Baxter  from  any  point  of  view — 
but  apart  altogether  from  Joan,  he  felt  that  if  there 
was  any  justification  in  his  late  luncheon  companion's 
views,  men  such  as  Baxter  supplied  it. 

With  a  movement  almost  of  distaste  he  turned  to 
Joan.  "I  was  sorry  that  we  didn't  have  another  game 
before  I  left  Rumfold,"  he  said  lightly. 

"It  was  so  very  even  that  last  one,"  she  returned, 
and  Vane's  knuckles  showed  white  on  the  table. 

"My  recollection  is  that  you  won  fairly  easily/'  he 
murmured. 

"Excuse  me  a  moment,  will  you?"  said  Mr.  Baxter 
to  Joan.  "There's  a  man  over  there  I  must  speak 
to.  .  .  ."  He  rose  and  crossed  the  restaurant.  Joan 
watched  him  as  he  moved  between  the  tables ;  then  she 
looked  at  Vane.  "Your  recollections  are  all  wrong," 
she  said  softly.  The  grey  eyes  held  no  hint  of  mock- 
ery in  them  now,  they  were  sweetly  serious,  and  once 
again  Vane  gripped  the  table  hard.  His  head  was  be- 
ginning to  swim  and  he  felt  that  he  would  shortly 
make  a  profound  fool  of  himself. 

"Do  you  think  you're  being  quite  kind,  grey  girl," 
he  said  in  a  low  voice  which  he  strove  to  keep  calm. 

For  a  few  moments  she  played  with  the  spoon  on  her 
coffee  cup,  and  suddenly  with  a  great  rush  of  pure 
joy,  which  well-nigh  choked  him,  Vane  saw  that  her 
hand  was  trembling. 

"Are  you?"  He  scarcely  heard  the  whispered  words 
above  the  noise  around. 

"I  don't  care  whether  I  am  or  not."  His  voice  was 
low  and  exultant.  He  looked  round,  and  saw  that 
Baxter  was  threading  his  way  back  towards  them, 
"This  afternoon,  Joan,  tea  in  my  rooms."  He  spoke 


MUFTI  191 

[ 

swiftly  and   insistently.     "You've  just  got  to  meet 
Binks.  ..." 

And    then,    before    she    could    answer,    he    was 
gone.  .  .  * 


CHAPTER  XII 

VANE  walked  along  Piccadilly  a  prey  to  conflicting 
emotions.  Dominant  amongst  them  was  a  wild 
elation  at  what  he  had  seen  in  Joan's  eyes,  but  a  very 
good  second  was  the  uncomfortable  remembrance  of 
Margaret.  What  did  he  propose  to  do? 

He  was  not  a  cad,  and  the  game  he  was  playing 
struck  him  rather  forcibly  as  being  uncompromisingly 
near  the  caddish.  Did  he,  or  did  he  not,  mean  to  make 
love  to  the  girl  he  had  just  left  at  the  Savoy?  And  if 
he  did,  to  what  end  ? 

A  crowd  of  lunchers  coming  out  of  Prince's  checked 
him  for  a  moment  or  two,  and  forced  him  into  the 
arms  of  an  officer  and  a  girl  who  were  standing,  ap- 
parently waiting  for  a  taxi.  Almost  unconsciously  he 
took  stock  of  them,  even  as  he  apologised.  .  .  . 

The  girl,  a  pretty  little  thing,  but  utterly  mediocre 
and  uninteresting,  was  clinging  to  the  officer's  arm, 
a  second  lieutenant  in  the  Tank  Corps. 

"Do  you  think  we  ought  to  take  a  taxi,  Bill  ?  Let's 
go  on  a  'bus.  .  .  . 

"No  damn  fear,"  returned  Bill.  "Let's  blow  the 
lot  while  we're  about  it.  I'm  going  back  to-mor- 
row. .  .  ." 

Then  Vane  pushed  past  them,  with  that  brief  snap- 
shot of  a  pair  of  lives  photographed  on  his  brain.  And 
it  would  have  effaced  itself  as  quickly  as  it  had  come, 

192 


MUFTI  193 

but  for  the  very  new  wedding  ring  he  had  seen  on  the 
girl's  left  hand — so  new  that  to  conceal  it  with  a  glove 
was  simply  not  to  be  thought  of. 

Money — money — money;  was  there  no  getting 
away  from  it? 

"Its  value  will  not  be  measured  by  material  things'. 
It  will  leave  nothing.  And  yet  it  will  have  everything, 
and  whatever  one  takes  from  it,  it  will  still  have,  so 
rich  will  it  be.  ..."  And  as  the  words  of  Oscar 
Wilde  came  to  his  mind  Vane  laughed  aloud. 

"This  is  London,  my  lad/'  he  soliloquised.  "Lon- 
don in  the  twentieth  century.  We've  a  very  nice  war 
on  where  a  man  may  develop  his  personality;  fairy 
tales  are  out  of  date." 

He  strolled  on  past  the  Ritz — his  mind  still  busy 
with  the  problem.  Joan  wanted  to  marry  money;  Joan 
had  to  marry  money.  At  least  he  had  gathered  so. 
He  had  asked  Margaret  to  marry  him;  she  had  said 
that  in  time  she  would — if  he  still  wanted  her.  At 
least  he  had  gathered  so.  Those  were  the  major  issues. 

The  minor  and  more  important  one — because  minor 
ones  have  a  way  of  influencing  the  big  fellows  out  of 
all  proportion  to  their  size — was  that  he  had  asked 
Joan  to  tea. 

He  sighed  heavily  and  turned  up  Half  Moon  Street. 
Whatever  happened  afterwards  he  had  his  duty  as  a 
host  to  consider  first.  He  decided  to  go  in  and  talk 
to  the  worthy  Mrs.  Green,  and  see  if  by  any  chance 
that  stalwart  pillar  would  be  able  to  provide  a  tea 
worthy  of  the  occasion.  Mrs.  Green  had  a  way  with 
her,  which  seemed  to  sweep  through  such  bureaucratic 
absurdities  as  ration  cards  and  food  restrictions.  Also, 


194  MUFTI 

and  perhaps  it  was  more  to  the  point,  she  had  a  sister 
in  Devonshire  who  kept  cows. 

"Mrs.  Green,"  called  Vane,  "come  up  and  confer 
with  me  on  a  matter  of  great  importance.  ..." 

With  a  wild  rush  Binks  emerged  from  below  as  if 
shot  from  a  catapault — to  be  followed  by  Mrs.  Green 
wiping  her  hands  on  her  apron. 

"A  most  important  affair,  Mrs.  Green,"  continued 
Vane,  when  he  had  let  himself  into  his  rooms,  and 
pacified  Binks  temporarily  with  the  squeaky  indiarub- 
ber  dog.  "Only  you  can  save  the  situation.  ..." 

Mrs.  Green  intimated  by  a  magnificent  gesture  that 
she  was  fully  prepared  to  save  any  situation. 

"I  have  visitors  for  tea,  or  rather,  to  be  correct — 
a  visitor.  A  lady  to  comfort  me — or  perhaps  torment 
me — as  only  your  sex  can."  His  eyes  suddenly  rested 
on  Margaret's  photo,  and  he  stopped  with  a  frown. 
Mrs.  Green's  motherly  face  beamed  with  satisfaction. 
Here  was  a  Romance  with  a  capital  R,  which  was  as 
dear  to  her  kindly  heart  as  a  Mary  Pickf  ord  film. 

"I'm  sure  I  hope  you'll  be  very  happy,  sir,"  she 
said. 

"So  do  I,  Mrs.  Green — though  I've  a  shrewd  suspi- 
cion I  shall  be  profoundly  miserable."  He  resolutely 
turned  his  back  on  the  photo.  "I'm  playing  a  little 
game  this  afternoon,  most  .motherly  of  women.  Inci- 
dentally it's  been  played  before — but  it  never  loses  its 
charm  or — its  danger.  ..."  He  gave  a  short  laugh. 
"My  first  card  is  your  tea.  Toast,  Mrs.  Green,  cov- 
ered with  butter  supplied  by  your  sister  in  Devonshire. 
Hot  toast  in  your  priceless  muffin  dish — running  over 
with  butter:  and  wortleberry  jam.  .  .  .  Can  you  do 
this  great  thing  for  me?" 


MUFTI  195 

Mrs.  Green  nodded  her  head.  "The  butter  only 
came  this  morning,  Mr.  Vane,  sir.  And  I've  got  three 
pounds  of  wortleberry  jam  left.  ..." 

"Three  pounds  should  be  enough,"  said  Vane  after 
due  deliberation. 

"And  then  I've  got  a  saffron  cake,"  went  on  the 
worthy  woman.  "Fresh  made  before  it  was  sent  off 
by  my  sister.  ..." 

"Say  no  more,  Mrs.  Green.  We  win — hands  down 
— all  along  the  line.  Do  you  realise  that  fair  women 
and  brave  men  who  venture  out  to  tea  in  London  to- 
day have  to  pay  half  a  crown  for  a  small  dog  biscuit?" 
Vane  rubbed  his  hands  together.  "After  your  tea,  and 
possibly  during  it — I  shall  play  my  second  card — 
Binks.  Now  I  appeal  to  you — Could  any  girl  with  a 
particle  of  natural  feeling  consent  to  go  on  living 
away  from  Binks?" 

The  Accursed  Thing  emitted  a  mournful  hoot,  as 
Binks,  hearing  his  name  spoken,  raised  his  head  and 
looked  up  at  his  master.  His  tail  thumped  the  floor 
feverishly,  and  his  great  brown  eyes  glowed  with  a 
mute  inquiry.  "To  walk,  or  not  to  walk" — that  was 
the  question.  The  answer  was  apparently  in  the  nega- 
tive, for  the  moment  at  any  rate,  and  he  again  returned 
to  the  attack. 

"You  see  my  guile,  Mrs.  Green,"  said  Vane.  "Soft- 
ened by  toast,  floating  in  Devonshire  butter  and  cov- 
ered with  wortleberry  jam;  mellowed  by  saffron  cake 
— Binks  will  complete  the  conquest.  Then  will  come 
the  crucial  moment.  No  one,  not  even  she,  can  part 
me  from  my  dog.  To  have  Binks — she  must  have  me. 
.  .  .  What  do  you  think  of  it — as  a  game  only,  you 
know?" 


196  MUFTI 

Mrs.  Green  laughed.  "I  surely  do  hope  you' re  suc- 
cessful, my  dear/'  she  said,  and  she  laid  a  motherly 
hand  on  his  arm.  In  moments  of  extreme  feeling  she 
sometimes  reverted  to  the  language  of  her  fathers, 
with  its  soft  West  Country  burr.  .  .  .  "When  Green 
come  courtin'  me,  he  just  tuk  me  in  tu  his  arms,  and 
give  me  a  great  fat  little  kiss.  .  .  . " 

"And,  by  Jove,  Mrs.  Green,  he  was  a  damn  lucky 
fellow  to  be  able  to  do  it,"  cried  Vane,  taking  the 
kindly  old  hand  in  both  his  own.  "If  I  wasn't  afraid 
of  him  coming  for  me  with  a  broomstick,  I'd  do  the 
same  myself.  ..." 

She  shook  a  reproving  finger  at  him  from  the  door, 
and  her  face  was  wreathed  in  smiles.  "You  ring 
when  you  want  the  tea,  Mr.  Vane,  sir/'  she  said,  "and 
I'll  bring  it  up  to  you.  ..." 

She  closed  the  door,  and  Vane  heard  the  stairs 
creaking  protestingly  as  she  descended.  And  not  for 
the  first  time  did  he  thank  his  lucky  stars  that  Fate 
had  put  him  into  such  hands  when  he  left  Oxford.  .  .  . 

For  a  while  he  stood  staring  at  the  door  with  a 
slight  frown,  and  then  he  turned  to  Binks. 

"I  wonder,  young  fellow  my  lad,"  he  muttered.  "I 
wonder  if  I'm  being  the  most  arrant  blackguard!" 

He  wandered  restlessly  round  the  room  taking  odd 
books  from  one  table  and  putting  them  on  another, 
only  to  replace  them  in  their  original  positions  on  the 
return  journey.  He  tidied  up  the  golf  clubs  and  a 
bundle  of  polo  sticks,  and  pitched  the  boxing  gloves 
under  a  settee  in  the  corner  from  which  Binks  prompt- 
ly retrieved  them.  In  fact,  he  behaved  as  men  will 
behave  when  they're  waiting  for  the  unknown — be  it 


MUFTI  197 

the  answer  of  a  woman,  or  zero  hour  at  six  thirty. 
And  at  last  he  seemed  to  realise  the  fact.  .  .  . 

"Oh!  Hell,  Binks,"  he  laughed.  "I've  got  it  bad- 
right  where  the  boxer  puts  the  sleep  dope.  ...  I 
think  Fll  just  go  and  wash  my  hands,  old  boy;  they 
strike  me  as  being  unpleasantly  excited.  .  .  ."• 

But  when  he  returned  Binks  was  still  exhaling 
vigorously  at  a  hole  in  the  wainscot,  behind  which' 
he  fancied  he  had  detected  a  sound.  With  the  chance 
of  a  mouse  on  the  horizon  he  became  like  Gamaliel, 
and  cared  for  none  of  these  things.  .  .  . 

A  taxi  drove  up  to  the*  door,  and  Vane  threw  down 
the  book  he  was  pretending*  to»  read,  and  listened  with 
his  heart  in  his  mouth.  Even  Binks,  scenting  that 
things  were  afoot,  ceased  to  blow,  and  cocked  his 
head  on  one  side  expectantly.  Then  he  growled,  a  low 
down,  purring  growl,  which  meant  that  strangers  were 
presuming  to  approach  his  domain  and  that  he  reserved 
his  judgment.  .  .  . 

"Shut  up,  you  fool/'  said  Vane,  as  he  sprang  across 
the  room  to  the  door,  which  at  once  decided  the  ques- 
tion in  Binks's  mind.  Here  was  evidently  an  enemy 
of  no  mean  order  who  dared  to  come  where  angels 
feared  to  tread  when  he  was  about.  He  beat  Vane  by 
two  yards,  giving  tongue  in  his  most  approved 
style.  .  .  . 

"Down,  old  man,  down,"  cried  Vane,  as  he  opened 
the  door— but  Binks  had  to  justify  his  existence.  And 
so  he  barked  twice  at  the  intruder  who  stood  outside, 
watching*  his  master  with  a  faint  smile.  True  the 
second  bark  seemed  in  the  nature  of  an  apology;  but 
damn  it,  one  must  do  something.  .  .  . 

"You've  come,"  said  Vane,  and  with  the  sight  of 


198  MUFTI 

her  every  other  thought  left  his  head.  "My  dear — 
but  it's  good  of  you.  ..." 

"Didn't  you  expect  me?"  she  asked  coming  into 
the  room.  Still  with  the  same  faint  smile,  she  turned 
to  Binks.  "Hullo,  old  fellow,"  she  said.  "You  sure 
have  got  a  great  head  on  you."  She  bent  over  him, 
and  put  her  hand  on  the  browny-black  patch  behind 
his  ears.  .  .  .  Binks  growled ;  he  disliked  familiarity 
from  people  he  did  not  know. 

"Look  out,  Joan,"  said  Vane  nervously.  "He's  a 
little  funny  with  strangers  sometimes." 

"Am  I  a  stranger,  old  chap?"  she  said,  taking  off 
her  glove,  and  letting  her  hand  hang  loosely  just  in 
front  of  his  nose,  with  the  back  towards  him.  Vane 
nodded  approvingly,  though  he  said  nothing ;  as  a  keen 
dog  lover  it  pleased  him  intensely  to  see  that  the  girl 
knew  how  to  make  friends  with  them.  And  not  every- 
one— even  though  they  know  the  method  to  use  with 
a  doubtful  dog — has  the  nerve  to  use  it.  ... 

For  a  moment  Binks  looked  at  her  appraisingly ; 
then  he  thrust  forward  a  cold  wet  nose  and  sniffed 
once  at  the  hand  in  front  of  him.  His  mind  was  made 
up.  Just  one  short,  welcoming  lick,  and  he  trotted 
back  to  his  hole  in  the  wainscot.  Important  matters 
seemed  to  him  to  have  been  neglected  far  too  long  as 
it  was.  .  .  . 

"Splendid,"  said  Vane  quietly.  "The  other  member 
of  the  firm  is  now  in  love  with  you  as  well.  ..." 

She  looked  at  Vane  in  silence,  and  suddenly  she 
shivered  slightly.  "I  think,"  she  said,  "that  we  had 
better  talk  about  rather  less  dangerous  topics.  ..." 
She  glanced  round  her,  and  then  went  to  the  window 
and  stood  looking  out  into  the  bright  sunlight.  "What 


MUFTI  199 

topping  rooms  you've  got,"  she  said  after  a  moment. 

"They  aren't  bad,  are  they?"  remarked  Vane  briefly. 
"What  do  you  say  to  some  tea  ?  My  devoted  landlady 
is  preparing  a  repast  which  millionaires  would  squan- 
der their  fortunes  for.  Her  sister  happens  to  live  in 
Devonshire.  ..." 

"So  you  were  expecting  me?"  she  cried,  turning 
round  and  facing  him. 

"I  was,"  answered  Vane. 

She  laughed  shortly.  "Well — what  do  you  think  of 
dyspepsia  and  Vichy?" 

"I've  been  trying  not  to  think  of  him  ever  since 
lunch,"  he  answered  grimly.  She  came  slowly  towards 
him,  and  suddenly  Vane  caught  both  her  hands.  "Joan, 
Joan,"  he  cried,  and  his  voice  was  a  little  hoarse,  "my 
dear,  you  can't.  .  .  .  You  just  can't.  ..." 

"What  great  brain  was  it  who  said  something  really 
crushing  about  that  word  'Can't'  ?"  she  said  lightly. 

"Then  you  just  mustn't."  His  grip  almost  hurt  her, 
but  she  made  no  effort  to  take  away  her  hands. 

"The  trouble,  my  very  dear  friend,  seems  to  me  to 
be  that — I  just  must."  Gently  she  disengaged  her 
hands,  and  at  that  moment  Mrs.  Green  arrived  with 
the  tea. 

"The  dearest  and  kindest  woman  in  London,"  said 
Vane  with  a  smile  to  Joan.  "Since  the  days  of  my 
callow  youth  Mrs.  Green  has  watched  over  me  like  a 
mother.  ..." 

"I  expect  he  wanted  some  watching  too,  Mrs. 
Green,"  cried  Joan. 

Mrs.  Green  laughed,  and  set  down  the  tea.  "Show 
me  the  young  gentleman  that  doesn't,  Miss,"  she  said, 


200  MUFTI 

"and  I'll  show  you  one  that's  no  manner  of  use  to 
anybody.  .   .   ." 

j  She  arranged  the  plates  and  cups  and  then  with  a 
final — "You'll  ring  if  you  want  more  butter,  sir" — 
she  left  the  room. 

"Think  of  it,  Joan,"  said  Vane.  "Ring  if  you  want 
more  butter!  Is  it  a  phrase  from  a  dead  language?" 
He  pulled  up  a  chair.  .  .  .  Will  you  preside,  please, 
and  decant  the  juice  ?" 

The  girl  sat  down  and  smiled  at  him  over  the  teapot. 
"A  big,  fat  tea,"  she  murmured,  "with  lots  of  scones 
and  Devonshire  cream.  .  .  ." 

"I  thought  you  suggested  talking  about  rather  less 
dangerous  topics,"  said  Vane  quietly.  Their  eyes  met, 
and  suddenly  Vane  leaned  forward.  "Tell  me,  grey 
girl,"  he  said,  "did  you  really  mean  it  when  you  said 
the  last  game  was  very  nearly  even?" 

For  a  moment  she  did  not  answer,  and  then  she 
looked  at  him  quite  frankly.  "Yes,"  she  said;  "I 
really  meant  it.  I  tell  you  quite  honestly  that  I  had 
meant  to  punish  you ;  I  had  meant  to  flirt  with  you — 
teach  you  a  lesson — and  give  you  a  fall.  I  thought  you 
wanted  it.  ,  .  .  And  then.  ..." 

"Yes,"  said  Vane  eagerly.  .  .   .  "What  then?" 

"Why — I  think  I  changed  my  mind,"  said  the  girl. 
"I  didn't  know  you  were  such  a  dear.  .  .  .  I'm  sorry," 
she  added  after  a  moment. 

"But  why  be  sorry?"  he  cried.  "It's  just  the  most 
wonderful  thing  in  the  world.  I  did  deserve  it — I've 
had  the  fall.  .  .  .  And  oh!  my  dear,  to  think  you're 
crashed  as  well.  .  .  .  Or  at  any  rate  slid  a  bit."  He 
corrected  himself  with  a  smile. 

But  there  was  no  answering  smile  on  the  girl's  face. 


MUFTI  201 

She  just  stared  out  of  the  window,  and  then  with  a 
sort  of  explosive  violence  she  turned  on  Vane.  "Why 
did  you  do  it?"  she  stormed.  "Why  .  .  .  why  .  .  .  ?" 
For  a  while  they  looked  at  one  another,  and  then 
she  laughed  suddenly.  "For  Heaven's  sake,  let's  be 
sensible.  .  .  .  The  toast  is  getting  cold,  my  dear 
man.  .  .  ." 

"I  can't  believe  it,"  said  Vane  gravely.  "We've 
done  nothing  to  deserve  such  a  punishment  as 
that.  .  .  ." 

And  so  for  a  while  they  talked  of  trivial  things — of 
plays,  and  books,  and  people.  But  every  now  and 
then  would  fall  a  silence,  and  their  eyes  would  meet 
— and  hold.  Just  for  a  moment  or  two ;  just  for  long 
enough  to  make  them  both  realise  the  futility  of  the 
game  they  were  playing.  Then  they  would  both  speak 
at  once,  and  contribute  some  gem  of  sparkling  wit, 
which  would  have  shamed  even  the  writer  of  mottoes 
in  crackers.  .  .  . 

A  tentative  paw  on  Joan's  knee  made  her  look  down. 
Binks — tired  of  his  abortive  blasts  at  an  unresponsive 
hole — desired  refreshment,  and  from  time  immemori- 
al tea  had  been  the  one  meal  at  which  he  was  allowed  to 
beg.  He  condescended  to  eat  two  slices  of  saffron 
cake,  and  then  Vane  presented  the  slop  basin  to  Joan. 

"He  likes  his  tea,"  he  informed  her,  "with  plenty 
of  milk  and  sugar.  Also  you  must  stir  it  with  your 
finger  to  see  that  it  isn't  too  hot.  He'll  never  forgive 
you  if  it  burns  his  nose." 

"You  really  are  the  most  exacting  household," 
laughed  Joan,  putting  the  bowl  down  on  the  floor. 

"We  are,"  said  Vane  gravely.  "I  hope  you  feel 
equal  to  coping  with  us.  ... " 


202  MUFTI 

She  was  watching  Binks  as  he  stood  beside  her 
drinking  his  tea,  and  gave  no  sign  of  having  heard 
his  remark. 

"You  know,"  he  continued  after  a  while,  "your  in- 
troduction to  Binks  at  such  an  early  stage  in  the  pro- 
ceedings has  rather  spoilt  the  masterly  programme  I 
had  outlined  in  my  mind.  First  you  were  to  be 
charmed  and  softened  by  Mrs.  Green's  wonderful  tea. 
Secondly,  you  were  to  see  Binks;  be  formally  intro- 
duced. You  were  to  fall  in  love  with  him  on  sight,  so 
to  speak;  vow  that  you  could  never  be  parted  from 
such  a  perfect  dog  again.  And  then,  thirdly  .  .  ." 

"His  appearance  is  all  that  I  could  desire/'  she  in- 
terrupted irrelevantlyj  "but  I  beg  to  point  out  that 
he  is  an  excessively  dirty  feeder.  ..." 

Vane  stood  up  and  looked  at  the  offender.  "You 
mean  the  shower  of  tea  drops  that  goes  backwards  on 
to  the  carpet,"  he  said  reflectively.  "  'Twas  ever  thus 
with  Binks." 

"And  the  tea  leaves  adhering  to  his  beard."  She 
pointed  an  accusing  finger  at  the  unrepentant  sinner. 

"You  should  have  poured  it  through  that  sieve  af- 
fair," said  Vane.  "Your  own  manners  as  a  hostess 
are  not  all  they  might  be.  However,  Binks  and  I  are 
prepared  to  overlook  it  for  once,  and  so  we  will  pass 
on  to  the  thirdly.  .  .  ." 

He  handed  her  the  cigarette  box,  and  with  a  faint 
smile  hovering  round  her  lips,  she  looked  up  at  him. 

"Is  your  thirdly  safe?"  she  asked. 

"Mrs.  Green  thought  it  wonderful.  A  suitable  cli- 
max to  a  dramatic  situation." 

"You've  had  a  rehearsal,  have  you  ?" 


MUFTI  203 

"Just  a  preliminary  canter  to  see  I  hadn't  forgotten 
anything." 

"And  she  approved  ?" 

"She  suggested  an  alternative  that,  I  am  rather  in- 
clined to  think,  might  be  better,"  he  answered.  "It's 
certainly  simpler.  ..." 

Again  she  smiled  faintly.  "I'm  not  certain  that 
Mrs.  Green's  simpler  alternative  strikes  me  as  being 
much  safer  than  your  thirdly,"  she  murmured.  "Inci- 
dentally, am  I  failing  again  in  my  obvious  duties  ?  It 
seems  to  me  that  Binks  sort  of  expects  some- 
thing. .  .  ."  Another  fusillade  of  tail  thumps  greeted 
the  end  of  the  sentence. 

"Great  Scott!"  cried  Vane,  "I  should  rather  think 
you  were.  However,  I  don't  think  you  could  very 
well  have  known ;  it's  outside  the  usual  etiquette  book." 
He  handed  her  the  indiarubber  dog.  "A  feint  towards 
the  window,  one  towards  the  door — and  then  throw." 

A  quivering,  ecstatic  body,  a  short,  staccato  bark — 
and  Binks  had  caught  his  enemy.  He  bit  once ;  he  bit 
again — and  then,  a  little  puzzled,  he  dropped  it.  Im- 
possible to  conceive  that  it  was  really  dead  at  last — 
and  yet,  it  no  longer  hooted.  Binks  looked  up  at  his 
master  for  information  on  the  subject,  and  Vane 
scratched  his  head. 

"That  sure  is  the  devil,  old  son,"  he  remarked. 
"Have  you  killed  it  for  keeps.  Bring  it  here.  .  .  ." 
Binks  laid  it  obediently  at  Vane's  feet.  "It  should 
squeak,"  he  explained  to  Joan  as  he  picked  it  up, 
"mournfully  and  hideously." 

She  came  and  stood  beside  him  and  together  they 
regarded  it  gravely,  while  Binks,  in  a  state  of  feverish 
anticipation,  looked  from  one  to  the  other. 


204  MUFTI 

"Get  on  with  it,"  he  tail-wagged  at  them  furiously ; 
"get  on  with  it,  for  Heaven's  sake !  Don't  stand  there 
looking  at  one  another.  ..." 

"I  think,"  his  master  was  speaking  in  a  voice  that 
shook,  "I  think  the  metal  squeak  has  fallen  inside  the 
animal's  tummy.  ..." 

"You  ought  to  have  been  a  vet,"  answered  the  girl, 
and  her  voice  was  very  low.  "Give  it  to  me;  my  finger 
is  smaller." 

She  took  the  toy  from  Vane's  hand  and  bent  over  it. 

"Thank  goodness  somebody  takes  an  intelligent  in- 
terest in  matters  of  import,"  thought  Binks — and  then 
with  a  dull,  unsqueaking  thud  his  enemy  fell  at  his  feet. 

"My  dear — my  dear !"  His  master's  voice  came  low 
and  tense  and  pretence  was  over.  With  hungry  arms 
Vane  caught  the  girl  to  him,  and  she  did  not  resist. 
He  kissed  her  eyes,  her  hair,  her  lips,  while  she  lay 
passively  against  him.  Then  she  wound  her  arms 
round  his  neck,  and  gave  him  back  kiss  for  kiss. 

At  last  she  pushed  him  away.  "Ah !  don't,  don't," 
she  whispered.  "You  make  it  so  hard,  Derek — so 
awfully  hard.  .  .  ." 

"Not  on  your  life,"  he  cried  exultingly.  "It's  easy 
that  I've  made  it,  my  darling,  so  awfully  easy.  .  *  Y1*; 

Mechanically  she  patted  her  hair  into  shape,  and 
then  she  stooped  and  picked  up  the  toy. 

"We're  forgetting  Binks,"  she  said  quietly.  She 
managed  to  get  the  circular  metal  whistle  out  of  the 
inside  of  the  toy,  and  fixed  it  in  its  appointed  hole, 
while  Vane,  with  a  glorious  joy  surging  through  him, 
leaned  against  the  mantelpiece  and  watched  her  in  si- 
lence. Not  until  the  squeaking  contest  was  again  go- 
ing at  full  blast  in  a  corner  did  he  speak. 


MUFTI  205 

"That  was  Mrs.  Green's  simpler  alternative/'  he 
said  reflectively.  "Truly  her  wisdom  is  great." 

In  silence  Joan  went  towards  the  window.  For  a 
while  she  looked  out  with  unseeing  eyes,  and  then  she 
sank  into  a  big  easy  chair  with  her  back  towards  Vane. 
A  thousand  conflicting  emotions  were  rioting  through 
her  brain ;  the  old  battle  of  heart  against  head  was  be- 
ing waged.  She  was  so  acutely  alive  to  his  presence 
just  behind  her;  so  vitally  conscious  of  his  nearness. 
Her  whole  body  was  crying  aloud  for  the  touch  of  his 
hands  on  her  again — and  then,  a  vision  of  Blandford 
came  before  her.  God!  what  did  it  matter — Bland- 
ford,  or  her  father,  or  anything?  There  was  nothing 
in  the  world  which  could  make  up  for — what  was  it 
he  had  called  it? — the  biggest  thing  in  Life. 

Suddenly  she  felt  his  hands  on  her  shoulders;  she 
felt  them  stealing  down  her  arms.  She  felt  herself 
lifted  up  towards  him,  and  with  a  little  gasp  of  utter 
surrender  she  turned  and  looked  at  him  with  shining 
eyes. 

"Derek,  my  darling,"  she  whispered.  "Que  je 
t'adore.  .  .  ." 

And  then  of  her  own  accord,  she  kissed  him  on  the 
lips.  .  .  , 

It  was  Binks's  expression,  about  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  later,  which  recalled  them  to  earth  again.  With 
an  air  of  pained  disgust  he  regarded  them  stolidly  for 
a  few  minutes.  Then  he  had  a  good  scratch  on  both 
sides  of  his  neck,  after  which  he  yawned.  He  did  not 
actually  say  "Pooh,"  but  he  looked  it,  and  they  both 
laughed. 

"Dear  man,"  she  whispered,  "wouldn't  it  be  just 


2o6  MUFTI 

too  wonderful  if  it  could  always  be  just  you  and  me 
andBinks?  .  .  ." 

"And  why  shouldn't  it  be,  lady  ?"  he  answered,  and 
his  arm  went  round  her  waist.  "Why  shouldn't  it  be  ? 
We'll  just  sometimes  have  to  see  some  horrible  out- 
sider, I  suppose,  and  perhaps  you  or  somebody  will 
have  to  order  food  every  year  or  so.  ...  But  except 
for  that — why,  we'll  just  slip  down  the  stream  all  on 
our  own,  and  there  won't  be  a  little  bit  of  difficulty 
about  keeping  your  eyes  in  the  boat,  grey  girl.  ..." 

She  smiled — a  quick,  fleeting  smile;  and  then  she 
sighed. 

"Life's  hell,  Derek — just  hell,  sometimes.  And  the 
little  bits  of  Heaven  make  the  hell  worse." 

"Life's  pretty  much  what  we  make  it  ourselves, 
dear,"  said  Vane  gravely. 

"It  isn't,"  she  cried  fiercely.  "We're  what  life 
makes  us.  ... " 

Vane  bent  over  and  started  pulling  one  of  Binks's 
ears. 

"You  hear  that,  old  man,"  he  said.  "The  lady  is  a 
base  materialist,  while  I — your  funny  old  master — 
am  sprouting  wings  and  growing  a  halo  as  a  vision- 
ary." Vane  looked  sideways  at  the  girl.  "He  man- 
ages to  make  his  own  life,  Joan.  He'd  be  as  happy 
with  me  in  a  garret  as  he  would  in  a  palace.  .  .  . 
Probably  happier,  because  he'd  mean  more  to  me — 
fill  a  bigger  part  of  my  life." 

Suddenly  he  stood  up  and  shook  both  his  fists  in 
the  air.  "Damn  it,"  he  cried,  "and  why  can't  we  cheat 
'em,  Joan?  Cheat  all  those  grinning  imps,  and  seize 
the  Blue  Bird  and  never  let  it  go?" 


MUFTI  207 

"Because,"  she  answered  slowly,  "if  you  handle  the 
Blue  Bird  roughly  or  snatch  at  it  and  put  it  in  a  cage, 
it  just  pines  away  and  dies.  And  then  the  imps  grin 
and  chuckle  worse  than  ever.  .  .  . " 

She  rose  and  put  her  hands  on  his  shoulders.  "It's 
here  now,  my  dear.  I  can  hear  it  fluttering  so  gently 
near  the  window.  .  .  .  And  that  noise  from  the  streets 
is  really  the  fairy  chorus.  .  .  ." 

A  motor  car  honked  discordantly  and  Vane  grinned. 

"That's  a  stout-hearted  little  fellow  with  a  good  pair 
of  lungs  on  him."  She  smiled  back  at  him,  and  then 
she  pushed  him  gently  backwards  and  forwards  with 
her  hands. 

"Of  course  he's  got  good  lungs,"  she  said.  "He 
toots  like  that  whenever  anybody  falls  in  love,  and 
twice  when  they  get  married,  and  three  times 
when  .  .  ." 

Vane's  breath  came  in  a  great  gasp,  and  he  pushed 
her  away  almost  roughly. 

"Don't— for  God's  sake,  don't,  Joan.  ..." 

"My  dear,"  she  cried,  catching  his  arm,  "forgive 
me.  The  Blue  Bird's  not  gone,  Derek — it's  still  there. 
Don't  frighten  it — oh!  don't.  We  won't  snatch  at  it, 
won't  even  think  of  making  any  plans  for  caging  it — 
we'll  just  assume  it's  going  to  stop.  ...  I  believe  it 
will  then.  .  .  .  And  afterwards — why  what  does  after- 
wards matter?  Let's  be  happy  while  we  may,  and — 
perhaps,  who  knows — we  will  cheat  those  grinning 
imps  after  all.  .  .  ." 

"Right,"  cried  Vane,  catching  her  hands,  "right, 
right,  right.  What  shall  we  do,  rhy  dear,  to  celebrate 
the  presence  of  our  blue  visitor?  ..." 


208  MUFTI 

For  a  moment  she  thought,  and  then  her  eyes  lit 
up.  "You're  still  on  leave,  aren't  you  ?" 

"Even  so,  lady." 

"Then  to-morrow  we  will  take  a  car.  ..." 

"My  car,"  interrupted  Vane.  "And  I've  got  ten 
gallons  of  petrol." 

"Glorious.  We'll  take  your  car,  and  will  start  ever 
so  early,  and  go  to  the  river.  Sonning,  I  think — to 
that  ripping  pub  where  the  roses  are.  And  then  we'll 
go  on  the  river  for  the  whole  day,  and  take  Binks, 
and  an  invisible  cage  for  the  Blue  Bird.  .  .  .  We'll 
take  our  food,  and  a  bone  for  Binks  and  the  squeaky 
dog.  Then  in  the  evening  we'll  have  dinner  at  the 
White  Hart,  and  Binks  shall  have  a  napkin  and  sit  up 
at  table.  And  then  after  dinner  we'll  come  home.  My 
dear,  but  it's  going  to  be  Heaven."  She  was  in  his 
arms  and  her  eyes  were  shining  like  stars.  "There's 
only  one  rule.  All  through  the  whole  day — no  one, 
not  even  Binks — is  allowed  to  think  about  the  day 
after." 

Vane  regarded  her  with  mock  gravity.  "Not  even 
if  we're  arrested  for  joy  riding?"  he  demanded. 

"But  the  mascot  will  prevent  that,  silly  boy,"  she 
cried.  "Why  would  we  be  taking  that  cage  for  other- 
wise ?" 

"I  see,"  said  Vane.  "It's  the  most  idyllic  picture 
I've  ever  even  thought  of.  There's  only  one  thing.  I 
feel  I  must  speak  about  it  and  get  it  over."  He  looked 
'  so  serious  that  for  a  moment  her  face  clouded.  "Do 
not  forget — I  entreat  of  you,  do  not  forget — your  meat 
coupon."  And  then  with  the  laughter  that  civilisation 
has  decreed  shall  not  be  heard  often,  save  on  the  lips 


MUFTI  209 

of  children,  a  man  and  a  girl  forgot  everything  save 
themselves.  The  world  of  men  and  matters  rolled  on 
and  passed  them  by,  and  maybe  a  year  of  Hell  is  fair 
exchange  for  that  brief  space.  .  .  ., 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE  next  morning  dawned  propitious,  and  Vane, 
as  he  drove  his  two-seater  through  the  park  to 
Ashley  Gardens,  sang  to  himself  under  his  breath.  He 
resolutely  shut  his  eyes  to  the  hurrying  streams  of 
khaki  and  blue  and  black  passing  in  and  out  of  huts  and 
Government  buildings.  They  simply  did  not  exist; 
they  were  an  hallucination,  and  if  persisted  in  might 
frighten  the  mascot. 

Joan  was  waiting  for  him  when  he  drove  up  at 
half-past  nine,  with  Binks  sitting  importantly  on  the 
seat  beside  him. 

"Get  right  in,  lady,"  cried  Vane,  "and  we'll  be  off 
to  the  Land  of  the  Pixies.  But,  for  the  love  of  Mike, 
don't  put  anything  on  Binks's  adversary  in  the  hood. 
He  hasn't  had  his  proper  morning  battle  yet,  and  one 
squeak  will  precipitate  a  catastrophe." 

Never  had  he  seen  Joan  looking  so  charming.  Of 
course  she  was  in  grey — that  was  in  the  nature  of  a 
certainty  on  such  an  occasion,  but  she  might  have 
been  in  sackcloth  for  all  the  attention  Vane  paid  to 
her  clothes.  It  was  her  face  that  held  him,  with  the 
glow  of  perfect  health  on  her  cheeks,  and  the  soft  light 
of  utter  happiness  in  her  eyes.  She  was  pretty — al- 
ways; but  with  a  sudden  catch  of  his  breath  Vane  told 
himself  that  this  morning  she  was  the  loveliest  thing 
he  had  ever  seen. 

"I've  got  the  cage,  Derek,"  she  said,  "and  the  beau- 
aio 


MUFTI  211 

ti  fullest  bone  for  Binks  that  he's  ever  thought 
of.  .  .  ." 

"You  dear/'  answered  Vane,  and  for  a  moment 
their  eyes  met.  "You  absolute  dear.  ..."  Then  with 
a  quick  change  of  tone  he  laughed.  "Jump  in,  grey 
girl — and  avaunt  all  seriousness.  Do  you  mind  having 
Binks  on  your  lap  ?" 

"Do  I  mind?"  she  answered  reproachfully.  "Did 
you  hear  that,  Binkie  ?  He's  insulting  you." 

But  Binks  was  claiming  his  share  of  the  Blue  Bird 
and  refused  to  take  offence.  He  just  opened  one 
brown  eye  and  looked  at  her,  and  then  he  went  peace- 
fully to  sleep  again.  He  rather  liked  this  new  acqui- 
sition to  the  family.  .  .  . 

And  so  began  the  great  day.  They  didn't  go  far 
from  the  hotel;  just  under  the  old  bridge  and  up  a 
little  way  towards  Sonning  lock,  where  the  river  forks, 
and  the  trees  grow  down  to  the  water's  edge.  To 
every  man  whose  steps  lead  him  on  to  the  Long  Trail, 
there  is  some  spot  in  this  island  of  ours  the  vision  of 
which  comes  back  to  him  when  the  day's  work  is  done 
and  he  lies  a-dreaming  of  Home.  To  some  it  may  be 
the  hills  in  the  Highlands  with  the  wonderful  purple 
mist  over  them  growing  black  as  the  sun  sinks  lower 
and  lower;  to  others  a  little  golden  sanded  beach  with 
the  red  sandstone  cliffs  of  Devon  rising  sheer  around 
it,  and  the  tiny  waves  rippling  softly  through  the 
drowsy  morning.  It  is  not  always  thus :  sometimes  the 
vision  shows  them  a  heaving  grey  sea  hurling  itself 
sullenly  on  a  rock-bound  coast ;  a  grey  sky,  and  driving 
rain  which  stings  their  faces  as  they  stand  on  the  cliffs 
above  the  little  cove,  looking  out  into  the  lands  beyond 
the  water,  where  the  strange  roads  go  down.  .  .  . 


2212  MUFTI 

And  then  to  some  it  may  be  the  roar  and  bustle  of 
Piccadilly  that  comes  back  to  haunt  them  in  their 
exile — the  theatre,  the  music  and  the  lights,  the  sound 
of  women's  skirts;  or  the  rolling  Downs  of  Sussex 
with  the  white  chalk  quarries  and  great  cockchafers 
booming  past  them  through  the  dusk. 

To  each  and  every  one  there  is  one  spot  hallowed 
by  special  memory,  and  that  spot  claims  pride  of  place 
in  day  dreams.  But  when  the  mind  rambles  on,  and 
the  lumber-room  of  the  past  is  open — to  all  who  have 
tasted  of  its  peaceful  spell  there  comes  the  thought  of 
The  River.  Spell  it  with  Capitals;  there  is  only  one. 
Whether  it  be  Bourne  End  with  its  broad  reach  and 
the  sailing  punts,  or  the  wooded  heights  by  Clevedon ; 
whether  it  be  Boulter's  Lock  on  Ascot  Sunday,  or  the 
quiet  stretch  near  Goring — there  is  only  one  River. 
Henley,  Wargrave,  Cookham — it  matters  not.  .  .  . 
They  all  go  to  form  The  River.  And  it's  one  of  them, 
or  some  of  them,  or  all  of  them  that  brings  that  faint 
smile  of  reminiscence  to  the  wanderer's  face  as  he  stirs 
the  fire  with  his  boot. 

It's  so  wonderful  to  drift — just  once  in  a  while. 
And  those  of  the  River  always  drift  when  they  wor- 
ship at  her  shrine.  Only  people  who  make  money  in 
tinned  goods  and  things,  and  are  in  all  respects  dread- 
ful, go  on  the  River  in  launches,  which  smell  and  of- 
fend people.  And  they  are  not  of  the  River.  .  .  . 

"If,"  said  Joan  lazily,  "you  had  suggested  paddling 
to  Reading,  or  punting  several  miles  towards  Henley, 
I  should  have  burst  into  tears.  And  yet  there  are 
some  people  who  deliberately  set  out  to  go  some- 
where. ..." 

"There  are  two  things  which  precluded  such  an  in- 


MUFTI  213 

sane  possibility,"  he  said.  "The  first  is  Binks;  he 
likes  to  run  about  And  the  second  is  that  unless  I 
have  a  kiss  within  one  second  I  shall  blow  up.  ..." 

"Of  course  you've  known  Binks  longer  than  me,  so 
I  suppose  I  mustn't  object  to  the  order  of  precedence." 
She  looked  at  him  mockingly,  then,  with  a  quick,  fierce 
movement,  she  took  his  face  between  her  hands.  And 
an  intelligent  and  bewhiskered  old  water  rat  regarded 
the  subsequent  proceedings  with  a  tolerant  eye. 

"More  of  'em  at  it,  my  dear,"  he  told  his  spouse,  in 
his  fastness  under  a  gnarled  tree-root.  "However, 
there's  no  objection  to  the  children  having  a  look  if  it 
amuses  them."  He  cast  a  discriminating  eye  round  the 
larder,  and  frowned  heavily.  "Hell!  you  don't  mean 
to  say  that  we've  got  that  damned  ham  bone  again," 
he  growled.  "However,  we  ought  to  pick  up  some- 
thing when  they've  finished  the  exhibition  and  get 
down  to  their  lunch.  ..."  He  thoughtfully  pulled 
his  left  whisker.  "And  by  the  way,  my  love,  tell  Jane 
not  to  go  wandering  about  this  afternoon,  even  if  she 
is  in  love.  There's  an  abominable  dog  of  the  most 
dangerous  description  on  the  warpath.  Let  me  know 
when  those  fools  stop." 

He  composed  himself  for  a  nap,  and  the  wash  of  a 
passing  launch  which  flopped  against  the  punt  outside 
lulled  him  to  sleep.  ...  He  was  a  prosaic  old  gentle- 
man, that  water  rat,  so  his  peevishness  may  be  forgiven 
him.  After  all,  a  ham  bone  is  a  ham  bone  and  pretty 
poor  at  that,  and  when  one  has  been  the  father  of 
several  hundreds,  the  romantic  side  of  life  pales  con- 
siderably in  the  light  of  the  possibilities  of  lunch. 

But  up  above,  in  the  punt,  the  fools  were  busy  ac- 
cording to  their  foolishness,  quite  unmindful  of  their 


214  MUFTI 

disapproving  audience.  Maybe  it  is  dangerous  to  try 
to  cheat  reality;  but  success  justifies  any  experiment. 
And  the  day  was  successful  beyond  their  wildest 
dreams.  Binks  grubbed  about  in  the  bank  and  inci- 
dentally gave  the  love-sick  Jane  the  fright  of  her 
young  life;  until  at  last,  tired  and  dirty  and  happy,  he 
lay  down  on  the  grass  just  above  Vane's  head,  and 
went  on  hunting  in  his  dreams.  .  .  . 

As  for  the  two  chief  fools,  the  day  passed  as  such 
days  have  always  passed  since  Time  began.  And  the 
absolute  happiness  which  comes  with  the  sudden  touch 
of  a  hand,  the  quick,  unexpected  glance,  the  long,  pas- 
sionate kiss,  is  not  to  be  put  on  paper.  They  talked  a 
little  about  aimless,  intimate  things;  they  were  silent 
a  great  deal — those  wonderful  silences  which  become 
possible  only  with  perfect  understanding.  And  grad- 
ually the  shadows  lengthened,  and  the  grey  water  be- 
gan to  grow  darker.  .  .  .  Sometimes  from  the  old 
bridge  came  the  noise  of  a  passing  car,  and  once  an 
electric  canoe  went  past  them  in  the  main  stream,  with 
a  gramophone  playing  on  board.  The  sound  of  the 
record  came  to  them  clearly  over  the  water — the  Bar- 
carolle from  "Les  Contes  des  Hoffman,"  and  they 
listened  until  it  died  faintly  away  in  the  distance. 

Then  at  last,  with  a  great  sigh  Vane  stood  up  and 
stretched  himself.  For  a  long  while  he  looked  down 
at  the  girl,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  his  face  was  sad. 
Without  a  word  he  untied  the  punt,  and,  still  in  silence, 
they  paddled  slowly  back  towards  the  hotel. 

It  was  only  as  they  were  drifting  under  the  bridge 
that  he  spoke,  just  one  short  sentence,  in  a  voice  which 
shook  a  little. 


MUFTI  215 

"My  dear,"  he  whispered,  "I  thank  you,"  and  very 
gently  he  raised  her  hand  to  his  lips.  .  .  . 

But  at  dinner  he  had  banished  all  traces  of  sadness 
from  his  mood.  They  both  bubbled  with  the  spon- 
taneous happiness  of  two  children.  Binks,  to  his  in- 
tense disgust,  had  to  submit  to  the  indignity  of  a  table 
napkin  tied  round  his  neck,  and  all  the  occupants  of 
the  hotel  thought  them  mad.  Incidentally  they  were 
— quite  mad,  which  was  just  as  it  should  be  after  such 
a  day.  Only  when  they  were  leaving  did  they  become 
sane  again  for  a  moment. 

"Just  one  more  look  at  the  river,  my  lady,"  said 
Vane  to  her,  "before  we  start.  There's  a  little  path  I 
know  of,  leading  out  of  the  rose  garden  where  one 
can't  be  seen,  and  we've  just  got  to  say  our  good-bye 
to  the  water  alone." 

He  led  the  way  and  Joan  followed  with  Binks  trot- 
ting sedately  between  them.  And  then  with  his  arm 
round  her  waist,  and  her  head  on  his  shoulder,  they 
stood  and  watched  the  black  water  flowing  smoothly 

by. 

"I've  stuck  to  the  rule,  grey  girl."  Vane's  arm 
tightened  round  her;  "I've  said  not  a  word  about  the 
future.  But  to-morrow  I  am  going  to  come  to  you; 
to-morrow  you've  got  to  decide." 

He  felt  her  shiver  slightly  against  him,  and  he  bent 
and  kissed  her  passionately.  "There  can  only  be  one 
answer,"  he  whispered  fiercely.  "There  shall  only  be 
one  answer.  We're  just  made  for  one  another.  ..." 

But  it  seemed  to  both  of  them  that  the  air  had  be- 
come colder.  .  .  . 

"You'll  come  in,  Derek,"  said  Joan  as  the  car  drew 


216  MUFTI 

up  in  Ashley  Gardens.  "Come  in  and  have  a  drink; 
my  aunt  would  like  to  see  you." 

Barely  a  word  had  been  spoken  on  the  drive  home, 
and  as  Vane  followed  her  into  the  flat  it  struck  him 
that  her  face  seemed  a  little  white. 

"Are  you  feeling  cold,  dear?"  he  asked  anxiously. 
"I  ought  to  have  taken  another  rug." 

"Not  a  bit,"  Joan  smiled  at  him.  "Only  a  little 
tired.  .  .  .  Even  the  laziest  days  are  sometimes  a  little 
exacting!"  She  laughed  softly.  "And  you're  rather 
an  exacting  person,  you  know.  ..." 

She  led  the  way  into  the  drawing-room,  and  Vane 
was  duly  introduced  to  Lady  Auldfearn. 

"There  are  some  letters  for  you,  Joan,"  said  her 
aunt.  "I  see  there's  one  from  your  father.  Perhaps 
he'll  say  in  that  whether  he  intends  coming  up  to  town 
or  not.  ..." 

With  a  murmured  apology  Joan  opened  her  mail, 
and  Vane  stood  chatting  with  the  old  lady. 

"I  hope  you  won't  think  me  rude,  Captain  Vane," 
she  said  after  a  few  commonplaces;  "but  I  have  ar- 
rived at  the  age  when  to  remain  out  of  bed  for  one 
instant  after  one  wishes  to  go  there  strikes  me  as  an 
act  of  insanity."  She  moved  towards  the  door  and 
Vane  opened  it  for  her  with  a  laugh.  "I  hope  I  shall 
see  you  again."  She  held  out  her  hand,  and  Vane 
bent  over  it. 

"It's  very  good  of  you,  Lady  Auldfearn,"  he  an- 
swered. "I  should  like  to  come  and  call.  ..." 

"You  can  ask  at  the  door  if  Joan  is  in,"  she  con- 
tinued. "If  she  isn't,  I  sha'n't  be  at  all  offended  if 
you  go  away  again." 

Vane  closed  the  door  behind  her,  and  strolled  back 


MUFTI  217 

towards  the  fireplace.  "A  woman  of  great  discern- 
ment is  your  aunt,  Joan."  He  turned  towards  her, 
and  suddenly  stood  very  still.  "What  is  it,  my  dear? 
.  .  .  Have  you  had  bad  news?" 

With  a  letter  crumpled  up  in  her  hand  she  was  star- 
ing at  the  floor,  and  she  gave  a  little,  bitter  laugh. 
"Not  even  one  day,  Derek;  the  kindly  Fates  wouldn't 
even  give  us  that.  .  .  ." 

She  looked  at  the  letter  once  again,  and  read  part 
of  it,  while  Vane  watched  her  with  a  hopeless  feeling 
of  impending  trouble. 

"You'd  better  read  it,"  she  said  wearily.  "It's  from 
Father."  She  handed  it  to  him,  and  then  pointed  to 
the  place.  "That  bit  there.  .  .  .  'So  I'm  sorry  to  say, 
little  Joan,  it's  come  at  last.  I've  been  hoping  against 
hope  that  I  might  be  able  to  pull  things  through,  but  it 
simply  can't  be  done.  The  less  will  not  contain  the 
greater,  and  my  irreducible  minimum  expenditure  is 
more  than  my  income.  Humanly  speaking,  as  far  as 
one  can  see,  there  can  be  no  considerable  fall  in  the 
cost  of  living  and  income  tax  for  many  years  after  the 
war.'  ..." 

Vane's  eyes  skimmed  on  over  the  short,  angular 
writing,  picking  up  a  phrase  here  and  there.  "Gordon 
to  be  considered.  ...  It  means  practical  penury  at 
Bland  ford,  comparative  affluence  if  we  go.  .  .  . 

"If  I  could  lay  my  hand  on  a  hundred  thousand  it 
might  pull  things  through  till  the  country  is  more  or 
less  settled  once  again;  that  is  if  it  ever  does  get 
settled.  If  labour  goes  on  as  it  is  at  present,  I  suppose 
we  shall  have  to  be  grateful  for  being  allowed  to  live 
at  all.  .  .  ."• 

Vane  looked  at  Joan,  who  was  still  staring  at  the 


218  MUFTI 

floor  in  front  of  her,  and  almost  mechanically  he  re- 
turned her  the  letter.  .  .  . 

"You've  known  this  was  coming,  Joan,"  he  said  at 
last.  .  .  . 

"Of  course,"  she  answered.  "But  it  doesn't  make 
it  any  better  now  it  has.  One  always  hopes."  She 
shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  looked  up  at  him.  "Give 
me  a  cigarette,  Derek,  I  don't  think  I'd  have  minded 
quite  so  much  if  it  hadn't  come  to-day.  ..." 

He  held  out  the  match  for  her,  and  then  with  his 
elbow  on  the  mantelpiece  he  stood  watching  her.  She 
seemed  inert,  lifeless,  and  the  contrast  with  the  laugh- 
ing, happy  girl  at  dinner  hit  him  like  a  blow.  If  only 
he  could  help — do  something ;  but  a  hundred  thousand 
was  an  absurdity.  His  total  income  was  only  about 
fifteen  hundred  a  year.  And  as  if  to  torment  him  still 
more  there  rose  before  his  mind  the  cold,  confident 
face  of  Henry  Baxter.  .  .  . 

"Joan — does  it  matter  so  frightfully  much  giving  up 
Blandford?" 

She  looked  at  him  for  a  moment,  with  a  sort  of 
amazement  on  her  face.  "My  dear,"  she  said,  "I 
simply  can't  imagine  life  without  Blandford.  It's  just 
part  of  me.  ..." 

"But  when  you  marry  you  wouldn't  live  there  your- 
self," he  argued. 

She  raised  her  eyebrows.  "Pride  of  place  belongs 
to  women  as  much  as  to  men,"  she  answered  simply. 
"Why,  Derek,  don't  try  to  pretend  that  you  don't 
understand  that."  She  gave  a  little  tired  laugh.  "Be- 
sides, it's  Dad — and  Gordon.  ..." 

"And  you'd  sacrifice  yourself  for  them,"  he  cried. 
"Not  to  keep  them  from  want,  don't  forget — but  to 


MUFTI  219 

keep  them  at  Bland  ford !"  She  made  no  answer,  and 
after  a  while  he  went  on.  "I  said  I'd  come  to-morrow, 
Joan,  and  ask  you  to  decide ;  but  this  letter  alters  things 
a  bit,  my  dear.  I  guess  we've  got  to  have  things  out 
now.  .  .  ," 

The  girl  moved  restlessly  and  rested  her  head  on  her 
hand. 

"You've  said  it  once,  lady;  I  want  to  hear  you  say 
it  again.  'Do  you  love  me  ?' ' 

"Yes;  I  love  you,"  she  said  without  the  slightest 
hesitation. 

"And  would  you  marry  me  if  there  was  no  Bland- 
ford?" 

"To-morrow,"  she  answered  simply,  "if  you  wanted 
it." 

With  a  sudden  ungovernable  rush  of  feeling  Vane 
swept  her  out  of  the  chair  into  his  arms,  and  she  clung 
to  him  panting  and  breathless. 

"My  dear,"  he  said  exultantly,  "do  you  suppose  that 
after  that  I'd  let  you  go?  Not  for  fifty  Blandfords. 
Don't  you  understand,  my  grey  girl  ?  You've  got 
your  sense  of  proportion  all  wrong.  You're  mine — 
and  nothing  else  on  God's  green  earth  matters." 

So  for  a  while  they  stood  there,  while  he  smoothed 
her  hair  with  hands  that  trembled  a  little  and  mur- 
mured incoherent  words  of  love.  And  then  at  last 
they  died  away,  and  he  fell  silent — while  she  looked 
at  him  with  tired  eyes.  The  madness  was  past,  and 
with  almost  a  groan  Vane  let  his  arms  fall  to  his  side. 

"Dear  man,"  she  said,  "I  want  you  to  go;  I  can't 
think  when  you're  with  me.  I've  just  got  to  worry 
this  thing  out  for  myself.  I  don't  want  you  to  come 
and  see  me,  Derek,  until  I  send  for  you ;  I  don't  want 


220  MUFTI 

you  even  to  write  to  me.  I  don't  know  how  long  it 
will  take.  .  .  .  But  I'll  let  you  know,  as  soon  as  I  know 
myself." 

For  a  while  he  argued  with  her — but  it  was  useless. 
In  the  bottom  of  his  heart  he  knew  it  would  be  even 
as  he  pleaded  and  stormed.  And,  because  he  recog- 
nised what  lay  behind  her  decision,  he  loved  her  all 
the  more  for  her  refusal.  There  was  a  certain  sweet 
wist  fulness  on  her  face  that  tore  at  his  heart,  and  at 
last  he  realised  that  he  was  failing  her,  and  failing  her 
badly.  It  was  a  monstrous  thing  from  one  point  of 
view  that  such  a  sacrifice  should  be  possible — but  it 
came  to  Vane  with  cynical  abruptness  that  life  abounds 
in  monstrous  things. 

And  so,  very  gently,  he  kissed  her.  "It  shall  be  as 
you  say,  dear/'  he  said  gravely.  "But  try  not  to  make 
it  too  long.  ..." 

At  the  door  he  stopped  and  looked  back.  She  was 
standing  as  he  had  left  her,  staring  out  into  the  dark- 
ness, and  as  he  paused  she  turned  and  looked  at  him. 
And  her  eyes  were  very  bright  with  unshed  tears.  .  .  . 

Mechanically  he  picked  up  his  hat  and  gloves,  and 
drove  back  to  his  rooms.  He  helped  himself  to  a 
whisky  and  soda  of  such  strength  that  Binks  looked  at 
him  with  an  apprehensive  eye,  and  then  he  laughed. 

"Hell,  Binks,"  he  remarked  savagely— "just  Hell!" 


CHAPTER  XIV 

DURING  the  weeks  that  followed  Vane  did  his 
best  to  put  Joan  out  of  his  mind.  He  had  given 
her  his  promise  not  to  write,  and  as  far  as  in  him  lay 
he  tried  his  hardest  not  to  think.  A  Medical  Board 
passed  him  fit  for  light  duty,  and  he  joined  up  at  the 
regimental  depot  in  the  cathedral  city  of  Murchester. 
Once  before  he  had  been  there,  on  a  course,  before 
he  went  overseas  for  the  first  time,  and  the  night  he 
arrived  he  could  not  help  contrasting  the  two  occa- 
sion^. On  the  first  he,  and  everyone  else,  had  had  but 
one  thought — the  overmastering  desire  to  get  across 
the  water.  The  glamour  of  the  unknown  was  calling 
them — the  glory  which  the  ignorant  associate  with 
war.  Shop  was  discussed  openly  and  without  shame. 
They  were  just  a  band  of  wild  enthusiasts,  only  long- 
ing to  make  good. 

And  then  they  had  found  what  war  really  was— had 
sampled  the  reality  of  the  thing.  One  by  one  the 
band  had  dwindled,  and  the  gaps  had  been  filled  by 
strangers.  Vane  was  sitting  that  night  in  the  chair 
where  Jimmy  Benton  had  always  sat.  .  .  .  He  re- 
membered Jimmy  lying  across  the  road  near  Dicke- 
bush  staring  up  at  him  with  sightless  eyes.  So  had 
they  gone,  one  after  another,  and  now,  how  many  were 
left?  And  the  ones  that  had  paid  the  big  price — did 
they  think  it  had  been  worth  while  .  .  .  now?  .  .  . 

221 


222  MUFTI 

They  had  been  so  willing  to  give  their  all  without 
counting  the  cost.  With  the  Englishman's  horror  of 
sentimentality  or  blatant  patriotism,  they  would  have 
regarded  with  the  deepest  mistrust  anyone  who  had 
told  them  so.  But  deep  down  in  each  man's  heart — it 
was  England — his  England — that  held  him,  and  the 
glory  of  it.  Did  they  think  their  sacrifice  had  been 
worth  while  .  .  .  now?  Or  did  they,  as  they  passed 
by  on  the  night  wind,  look  down  at  the  seething  bitter- 
ness in  the  country  they  had  died  for,  and  whisper 
sadly,  "It  was  in  vain — You  are  pulling  to  pieces  what 
we  fought  to  keep  standing;  you  have  nothing  but 
envy  and  strife  to  put  in  its  place.  .  .  .  Have  you  not 
found  the  truth— yet?  .  .  ." 

Unconsciously,  perhaps,  but  no  less  certainly  for 
that,  Vane  was  drifting  back  into  the  same  mood  that 
had  swayed  him  when  he  left  France.  If  what  Ram- 
age  had  said  to  him  was  the  truth;  if,  at  the  bottom  of 
all  the  ceaseless  bickering  around,  there  was,  indeed,  a 
vital  conflict  between  two  fundamentally  opposite 
ideas,  on  the  settlement  of  which  depended  the  final 
issue — it  seemed  to  him  that  nothing  could  avert  the 
catastrophe  sooner  or  later.  It  was  against  human 
nature  for  any  class  to  commit  suicide — least  of  all 
the  class  which  for  generations  had  regarded  itself  and 
been  regarded  as  the  leading  one.  And  yet,  unless  this 
thing  did  happen ;  unless  voluntarily,  the  men  of  prop- 
erty agreed  to  relinquish  their  private  rights,  and  sink 
their  own  interests  for  the  good  of  the  others,  Ramage 
had  quite  calmly  and  straightforwardly  prophesied 
force.  Apparently  the  choice  lay  between  suicide  and 
murder.  ... 

It  all  seemed  to  hopelessly  futile  to  Vane.    He  began 


MUFTI  223 

to  feel  that  only  over  the  water  lay  Reality ;  that  here, 
at  home,  he  had  discovered  a  Land  of  Wild  Imagin- 
ings. .  .  . 

Though  he  refused  to  admit  it  to  himself,  there  was 
another,  even  more  potent,  factor  to  account  for  his 
restlessness.  Like  most  Englishmen,  however  black 
the  outlook,  however  delirious  the  Imagining,  he  had, 
deep  down  in  his  mind,  the  ingrained  conviction  that 
the  country  would  muddle  through  somehow.  But  the 
other  factor — the  personal  factor — Joan,  was  very  dif- 
ferent. Try  as  he  would  he  could  not  dismiss  her 
from  his  mind  entirely.  Again  and  again  the  thought 
of  her  came  back  to  torment  him,  and  he  began  to  chafe 
more  and  more  at  his  forced  inaction.  Where  large 
numbers  of  officers  are  continually  passing  through  a 
depot,  doing  light  duty  while  recovering  from  wounds, 
there  can  be  nothing  much  for  the  majority  to  do. 
Twice  he  had  begun  a  letter  to  Margaret,  to  tell  her 
that  after  all  she  had  been  right — that  it  had  been 
nervous  tension — that  it  wasn't  her  after  all.  And 
twice  he  had  torn  it  up  after  the  first  few  lines.  It 
wasn't  fair,  he  pacified  his  conscience,  to  worry  her 
when  she  was  so  busy.  He  could  break  it  far  more 
easily  by  degrees — when  he  saw  her.  And  so  the  rest- 
lessness grew,  and  the  disinclination  to  do  anything 
but  sit  in  the  mess  and  read  the  papers.  His  arm  was 
still  too  stiff  for  tennis,  and  the  majority  of  the  local 
people  bored  him  to  extinction.  Occasionally  he  man- 
aged to  get  ten  minutes'  work  to  do  that  was  of  some 
use  to  somebody;  after  that  his  time  was  his  own. 

One  day  he  tried  his  hand  at  an  essay,  but  he  found 
that  the  old  easy  style  which  had  been  his  principal  as- 
set had  deserted  him.  It  was  stiff  and  pedantic,  and 


224  MUFTI 

what  was  worse — bitter;  and  he  tore  it  up  savagely 
after  he  had  read  it  through.  He  tried  desperately  to 
recover  some  of  his  old  time  optimism — and  he  failed. 
He  told  himself  again  and  again  that  it  was  up  to  him 
to  see  big,  to  believe  in  the  future,  and  he  cursed  him- 
self savagely  for  not  being  able  to. 

There  was  a  woman  whom  he  had  met  at  lunch  on 
one  of  his  periodical  visits  to  London.  She  was  a  war 
widow,  and  a  phrase  she  had  used  to  him  rang  in  his 
brain  for  many  days  after.  It  seemed  to  him  to  ex- 
press so  wonderfully  the  right  feeling,  the  feeling 
which  in  another  form  he  was  groping  after. 

"It  wouldn't  do,"  she  had  said  very  simply,  "for 
the  Germans  to  get  a  'double  casualty/ '  It  was  the 
sort  of  remark,  he  thought,  that  he  would  have  expect- 
ed Margaret  to  make.  With  all  the  horror  of  genteel 
pauperism  staring  her  in  the  face,  that  woman  was 
thinking  big,  and  was  keeping  her  head  up.  With  all 
the  bitterness  of  loss  behind  her,  she  had,  that  very  day, 
so  she  told  him,  been  helping  another  more  fortunate 
one  to  choose  frocks  for  her  husband's  next  leave.  .  .  . 

Try  as  he  might,  he  could  not  rid  himself  of  the 
mocking  question  "Cui  bono?"  What  was  the  use  of 
this  individual  heroism  to  the  country  at  large?  As' 
far  as  the  woman  herself  was  concerned  it  kept  her 
human,  but  to  the  big  community  .  .  .?  Would 
even  the  soldiers  when  they  came  back  be  strong 
enough,  and  collected  enough,  to  do  any  good?  And 
how  many  of  them  really  thought  .  .  .  ? 

Surely  there  must  be  some  big,  and  yet  very  simple, 
message  which  the  war  could  teach.  Big  because  the 
result  had  been  so  wonderful ;  simple  because  the  most 
stupid  had  learned  it  And  if  they  had  learned  it  over 


MUFTI  225 

the  water,  surely  they  could  remember  it  afterwards. 
.  .  .  Pass  it  on  to  others.  It  might  even  be  taught  in 
the  schools  for  future  generations  to  profit  by. 

It  was  not  discipline  or  so-called  militarism;  they 
were  merely  the  necessary  adjuncts  to  a  life  where 
unhesitating  obedience  is  the  only  thing  which  prevents 
a  catastrophe.  It  was  not  even  tradition  and  playing 
the  game,  though  it  seemed  to  him  he  was  getting 
nearer  the  answer.  But  these  were  not  fundamental 
things;  they  were  to  a  certain  extent  acquired.  He 
wanted  something  simpler  than  that — something  which 
came  right  at  the  beginning,  a  message  from  the  bed- 
rock of  the  world;  something  which  was  present  in 
France — something  which  seemed  to  be  conspicuous 
by  its  absence  in  England. 

"We've  caught  these  fellows,"  he  said  one  evening 
after  dinner  to  a  regular  Major  whose  life  had  taken 
him  all  over  the  world,  "and  we've  altered  'em.  Their 
_J)rothers  are  here  at  home;  they  themselves  were  here 
a  short  while  ago — will  be  back  in  the  future.  They 
are  the  same  breed;  they  come  from  the  same  stock. 
What  is  this  thing  that  has  done  it  ?  What  gospel  has 
been  preached  to  'em  to  turn  them  into  the  salt  of  the 
earth,  while  at  home  here  the  others  are  unchanged, 
except  for  the  worse?" 

The  Major  shifted  his  pipe  from  one  corner  of  his 
mouth  to  the  other.  "The  gospel  that  was  preached 
two  thousand  odd  years  ago,"  he  answered  shortly. 
Vane  looked  at  him  curiously.  "I  admit  I  hardly  ex- 
pected that  answer,  Major,"  he  said. 

"Didn't  you?"  returned  the  other.  "Well,  I'm  not 
an  authority  on  the  subject;  and  I  haven't  seen  the  in- 
side of  a  church  for  business  purposes  since  before  the 


226  MUFTI 

South  African  War.  But  to  my  mind,  when  you've 
shorn  it  of  its  trappings  and  removed  ninety  per  cent, 
of  its  official  performers  into  oblivion,  you'll  find  your 
answer  in  what,  after  all,  the  Church  stands  for."  He 
hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  glanced  at  Vane,  for  he 
was  by  nature  a  man  not  given  to  speech.  "Take  a 
good  battalion  in  France,"  he  continued  slowly.  "You 
know  as  well  as  I  do  what's  at  the  bottom  of  it — good 
officers.  Good  leaders.  .  .  .  What  makes  a  good 
leader?  What's  the  difference  between  a  good  officer 
and  a  dud?  Why,  one  has  sympathy  and  the  other 
hasn't :  one  will  sacrifice  himself,  the  other  won't.  .  .  . 
There's  your  gospel.  .  .  . "  He  relapsed  into  silence, 
and  Vane  looked  at  him  thoughtfully. 

"Sympathy  and  sacrifice,"  he  repeated  slowly.  "Is 
that  your  summing  up  of  Christianity?" 

"Isn't  it?"  returned  the  other.  "But  whether  it  is 
or  whether  it  isn't,  it's  the  only  thing  that  will  keep 
any  show  going.  Damn  it,  man,  it's  not  religion — 
it's  common  horse  sense."  The  Major  thumped  his 
knee.  "What  the  deuce  do  you  do  if  you  find  things 
are  going  wrong  in  your  company?  You  don't  snow 
yourself  in  with  reports  in  triplicate  and  bark.  You 
go  and  see  for  yourself.  Then  you  go  and  talk  for 
yourself;  and  you  find  that  it  is  either  a  justifiable 
grievance  which  you  can  put  right,  or  an  error  or  a 
misunderstanding  which  you  can  explain.  You  get 
into  touch  with  them.  .  .  .  Sympathy.  Sacrifice. 
Have  a  drink?"  He  pressed  the  bell  and  sank  back 
exhausted.  As  has  been  said,  he  was  not  addicted  to 
speech. 

Neither  of  them  spoke  until  the  waiter  had  carried 
out  the  order,  and  then  suddenly  the  Major  started 


MUFTI  227 

again.  Like  many  reserved  men,  once  the  barrier  was 
broken  down,  he  could  let  himself  go  with  the  best. 
And  Vane,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  quiet  face  and 
steady  eyes  of  the  elder  man,  listened  in  silence. 

"I'm  a  fool,"  he  jerked  out.  "Every  Regular  officer 
is  a  fool.  Numbers  of  novelists  have  said  so.  Of 
course  one  bows  to  their  superior  knowledge.  But 
what  strikes  me  in  my  foolishness  is  this.  .  .  .  You've 
got  to  have  leaders  and  you've  got  to  have  led,  because 
the  Almighty  has  decreed  that  none  of  us  have  the 
same  amount  of  ability.  Perhaps  they  think  He's  a 
fool  too;  but  even  they  can't  alter  that.  ...  If  ability 
varies  so  must  the  reward — money;  and  some  will 
have  more  than  others.  Capital  and  Labour;  leader 
and  led;  officer  and  man.  ...  In  the  old  days  we 
thought  that  the  best  leader  for  the  Army  was  the 
sahib ;  and  with  the  old  army  we  were  right.  Tommy 
.  .  .  poor,  down-trodden  Tommy,  as  the  intellectuals 
used  to  call  him,  was  deuced  particular.  He  was  also 
mighty  quick  on  the  uptake  at  spotting  the  manner  of 
man  he  followed.  Now  things  have  changed ;  but  the 
principle  remains.  And  it  answers.  .  .  .  You'll  al- 
ways have  an  aristocracy  of  ability  who  will  be  the 
civilian  leaders,  you'll  always  have  the  rank  and  file 
who  will  be  led  by  them.  The  same  rules  will  hold 
as  you  apply  in  the  army.  .  .  .  You'll  have  good  shows 
and  bad  shows,  according  to  whether  the  leader  has  or 
has  not  got  sympathy.  A  good  many  now  should  have 
it;  they've  learned  the  lesson  over  the  water.  And 
on  their  shoulders  rests  the  future.  .  .  . " 

"You  put  the  future  on  the  leaders,  too/'  said  Vane 
a  little  curiously. 


228  MUFTI 

"Why,  naturally/*  returned  the  other.  "What  else 
fits  a  man  to  lead  ?" 

"But  your  broad  doctrine  of  sympathy" — pursued 
Vane.  "Don't  you  think  it's  one  of  those  things  that 
sounds  very  nice  in  a  pulpit,  but  the  practical  applica- 
tion is  not  quite  so  easy.  ..." 

"Of  course  it  isn't  easy,"  cried  the  other.  "Who 
the  deuce  said  it  was  ?  Is  it  easy  to  be  a  good  regi- 
mental officer?  Sympathy  is  merely  the — the  spiritual 
sense  which  underlies  all  the  work.  And  the  work  is 
ceaseless  if  the  show  is  going  to  be  a  good  one.  You 
know  that  as  well  as  I  do.  You  take  an  officer  who 
never  talks  to  his  men,  practically  never  sees  'em — 
treats  'em  as  automatons  to  do  a  job.  Never  sacrifices 
his  own  comfort.  What  sort  of  a  show  are  you  going 
to  have?'* 

"Damn  bad,"  said  Vane,  nodding  his  head. 

"And  you  take  a  fellow  who  talks  to  'em,  knows  'em 
well,  is  a  friend  to  'em,  and  explains  things — that's  the 
vital  point — explains  things ;  listens  to  what  they  have 
to  say — even  makes  some  small  amendments  if  he 
thinks  they're  right.  ...  A  fellow  who  makes  them 
take  a  pride  in  their  show.  .  .  .  What  then  ?" 

"But  could  you  apply  it  to  civil  life?"  queried  Vane. 

"Don't  know,"  returned  the  other,  "because  I'm  a 
fool.  Everybody  says  so;  so  I  must  be.  But  it  seems 
to  me  that  if  you  take  a  concern,  and  every  week  the 
boss  sends  for  his  men,  or  some  chosen  representative 
of  theirs,  and  explains  things  to  'em,  it  won't  do  much 
harm.  Shows  'em  how  the  money  is  going — what  it's 
being  spent  on,  why  he's  putting  in  fresh  plant,  why 
his  dividends  ain't  going  to  be  as  big  this  year  as  they 
were  last — all  that  sort  of  thing.  Don't  play  the  fool 


MUFTI  229 

with  them.  .  .  .  Dividends  may  be  bigger,  and  he'll 
have  to  stump  up.  ...  A  good  many  of  the  bosses 
will  have  to  alter  their  ways,  incidentally.  No  man 
is  going  to  sweat  himself  in  order  that  someone  else 
up  the  road  can  keep  a  second  motor  car,  when  the 
man  himself  hasn't  even  a  donkey  cart.  You  wouldn't 
yourself — nor  would  I.  Up  to  a  point  it's  got  to  be 
share  and  share  alike.  Over  the  water  the  men  didn't 
object  to  the  C.O.  having  a  bedroom  to  himself;  but 
what  would  they  have  said  if  he'd  gone  on  to  battalion 
parade  in  a  waterproof  one  bad  day,  while  they  were 
uncloaked  ?" 

"Yes,  but  who  is  going  to  decide  on  that  vital  ques- 
tion of  money?"  pursued  Vane.  "Supposing  the  men 
object  to  the  way  the  boss  is  spending  it.  ... " 

The  other  thoughtfully  filled  his  pipe.  "Of  course, 
there  will  always  be  the  risk  of  that,"  he  said.  "Seven- 
teen and  twenty  per  cent,  dividends  will  have  to  cease 
— I  suppose.  And  after  all — not  being  a  Croesus  my- 
self I'm  not  very  interested — I'm  blowed  if  I  see  why 
man  should  expect  more  than  a  reasonable  percentage 
on  his  money.  I  believe  the  men  would  willingly  agree 
to  that  if  they  were  taken  into  his  confidence  and  sure 
he  wasn't  cooking  his  books.  .  .  .  But  when  one  reads 
of  ten,  herded  together  in  one  room,  and  the  company 
paying  enormous  dividends,  do  you  wonder  they  jib? 

I  would.  Why  shouldn't  the  surplus  profit  above  a 
fair  dividend  be  split  up  amongst  the  workmen?  I'm 
no  trade  expert,  Vane.  Questions  of  supply  and  de- 
mand, and  tariffs  and  overtime,  leave  me  quite  cold. 
But  if  you're  going  to  get  increased  production,  and 
you've  got  to  or  you're  going  to  starve,  you  can't 
have  civil  war  in  the  concern.  And  to  ensure  that  you 


230  MUFTI 

must  have  all  the  cards  on  the  table.  The  men  must 
understand  what  they're  doing;  the  boss  must  explain. 

"What  made  a  man  understand  the  fact  of  dying 
over  the  water?  What  made  thousands  of  peace-lov- 
ing men  go  on  in  the  filth  and  dirt,  only  to  die  like 
rats  at  the  end.  .  .  .  What  made  'em  keep  their  tails 
up,  and  their  chests  out?  Why — belief  and  trust  in 
their  leaders.  And  how  was  it  inculcated?  By  sym- 
pathy— nothing  more  nor  less.  God  above — if  it  was 
possible  when  the  stakes  were  life  and  death — can't  it 
be  done  over  here  in  the  future  ?  The  men  won't  strike 
if  only  they  understand;  unless  in  the  understanding 
they  find  something  they  know  to  be  wrong  and  un- 
just." 

"I  was  talking  to  that  Labour  fellow — Ramage — 
the  other  day,"  said  Vane  thoughtfully.  "According 
to  him  State  control  of  everything  is  the  only  panacea. 
And  he  says  it's  coming.  ..." 

"Dare  say  it  will,"  returned  the  other.  "The  prin- 
ciple remains  the  same.  With  sympathy  nine  out  of 
ten  strikes  will  be  averted  altogether.  Without  it, 
they  won't.  The  leaders  will  be  in  touch  with  their 
men;  as  leaders  they  will  be  able  to  feel  the  pulse  of 
their  men.  And  when  things  are  going  wrong  they'll 
know  it ;  they'll  anticipate  the  trouble.  .  .  .  Sympathy ; 
the  future  of  the  Empire  lies  in  sympathy.  And  this 
war  has  taught  many  thousands  of  men  the  meaning 
of  the  word.  It  has  destroyed  the  individual  outlook. 
.  .  .  There,  it  seems  to  me,  lies  the  hope  of  our  salva- 
tion." He  finished  his  drink  and  stood  up.  "If  we're 
going  to  continue  a  ceaseless  war  between  leaders  and 
led — it's  me  for  Hong-Kong.  And  it  is  only  the  lead- 
ers who  can  avert  it.  ." 


MUFTI  231 

"Incidentally  that's  what  Ramage  said,"  remarked 
Vane.  "Only  he  demands  complete  equality  .  .  .  the 
abolition  of  property.  ..." 

The  other  paused  as  he  got  to  the  door.  "Then  the 
man's  a  fool,  and  a  dangerous  fool/'  he  answered 
gravely.  "Night-night.  .  .  ." 

For  a  long  while  Vane  sat  on,  staring  at  the  fire. 
Though  only  early  in  October,  the  night  was  chilly, 
and  he  stretched  his  legs  gratefully  to  the  blaze.  After 
a  time  he  got  up  and  fetched  an  evening  paper.  The 
great  push  between  Cambrai  and  St.  Quentin  was  go- 
ing well;  behind  Ypres  the  Boche  was  everywhere  on 
the  run.  But  to  Vane  gigantic  captures  in  men  and 
guns  meant  a  very  different  picture.  He  saw  just  the 
one  man  crawling  on  his  belly  through  the  mouldering 
bricks  and  stinking  shell-holes  of  some  death-haunted 
village.  He  saw  the  sudden  pause — the  tense  silence 
as  the  man  stopped  motionless,  listening  with  every 
nerve  alert.  He  felt  once  again  the  hideous  certainty 
that  he  was  not  alone;  that  close  to,  holding  his  breath, 
was  someone  else  .  .  .  then  he  saw  the  man  turn  like 
a  flash  and  stab  viciously ;  he  heard  the  clatter  of  fall- 
ing bricks — the  sob  of  exultation  as  the  Boche  writhed 
in  his  death  agony.  .  .  .  And  it  might  have  been  the 
other  way  round. 

Then  he  saw  the  other  side ;  the  long  weary  hours  of 
waiting,  the  filthy  weariness  of  it  all — the  death  and 
desolation.  Endured  without  a  murmur;  sticking  it 
always,  merry,  cheerful,  bright — so  that  the  glory  of 
the  British  soldier  should  be  written  on  the  scroll  of 
the  immortals  for  all  eternity. 

Was  it  all  to  be  wasted,  thrown  away?  His  jaw 
set  at  the  thought.  Surely — surely  that  could  never 


232  MUFTI 

be.  Let  'em  have  their  League  of  Nations  by  all  man- 
ner of  means ;  but  a  League  of  Britain  was  what  these 
men  were  fighting  for.  And  to  every  Britisher  who 
is  a  Britisher — may  God  be  praised  there  are  millions 
for  whom  patriotism  has  a  real  meaning — that  second 
League  is  the  only  one  that  counts. 

The  door  opened  and  Vallance,  the  Adjutant,  came 
in. 

"There's  a  letter  for  you,  old  boy,  outside  in  the 
rack,"  he  remarked.  He  walked  over  to  the  fire  to 
warm  his  hands.  "Bring  me  a  large  whisky  and  a 
small  soda/'  he  said  to  the  waiter,  who  answered  his 
ring.  "Drink,  Vane?" 

Vane  looked  up  from  the  envelope  he  was  holding 
in  his  hand  and  shook  his  head.  "No,  thanks,  old 
man,"  he  answered.  "Not  just  now.  ...  I  think  I'll 
read  this  letter  first."  And  the  Adjutant,  who  was 
by  nature  an  unimaginative  man,  failed  to  notice  that 
Vane's  voice  was  shaking  a  little  with  suppressed  ex- 
citement. 

It  was  ten  minutes  before  either  of  them  spoke 
again.  Twice  Vane  had  read  the  letter  through,  and 
then  he  folded  it  carefully  and  put  it  in  his  pocket. 

"Contrary  to  all  service  etiquette,  old  boy,"  he  said, 
"I  am  going  to  approach  you  on  the  subject  of  leave  in 
the  mess.  I  want  two  or  three  days.  Can  it  be  done?" 

Vallance  put  down  his  paper,  and  looked  at  him. 

"Urgent  private  affairs  ?"  he  asked  lightly. 

"Very  urgent,"  returned  Vane  grimly. 

"I  should  think  it  might  be  managed,"  he  said. 
"Fire  in  an  application  and  I'll  put  it  up  to-morrow." 

"Thanks,"  said  Vane  briefly,  "I  will." 

For  a  moment  or  two  after  he  had  left  the  room 


MUFTI  233 

Vallance  looked  at  the  closed  door.  Then  he  picked 
the  envelope  out  of  the  grate,  and  studied  the  hand- 
writing. 

"Confound  these  women,"  he  muttered,  and  con- 
signed it  to  the  flames.  He  liked  to  think  himself  a 
misogynist,  and,  incidentally  thoughts  of  drafts  were 
worrying  him. 

Up  in  his  own  room  Vane  was  poking  the  fire.  His 
face  was  stern,  and  with  care  and  deliberation  he 
pulled  up  the  arm  chair  to  the  blaze.  Then  he  took  the 
letter  out  of  his  pocket,  and  proceeded  to  read  it 
through  once  again. 

MELTON  HOUSE, 
OFFHAM,  NEAR  LEWES. 

MY  DEAR, — It's  just  on  midnight,  but  I  feel  in  the 
mood  for  doing  what  I've  been  shirking  for  so  long. 
Don't  you  know  the  feeling  one  gets  sometimes  when 
one  has  put  off  a  thing  again  and  again,  and  then 
there  suddenly  comes  an  awful  spasm  and  one  fairly 
spreads  oneself  ?  .  .  .  Like  putting  one's  bills  away  for 
months  on  end,  and  then  one  day  becoming  insane  and 
paying  the  whole  lot.  I've  been  putting  this  off,  Derek, 
for  what  I'm  going  to  write  will  hurt  you  .  .  .  almost 
as  much  as  it  hurts  me.  I'm  not  going  to  put  in  any 
of  the  usual  cant  about  not  thinking  too  hardly  of  me;, 
I  don't  think  somehow  we  are  that  sort.  But  I  can't 
marry  you.  I  meant  to  lead  up  to  that  gradually,  but 
the  pen  sort  of  slipped — and,  anyway  you'd  have 
known  what  was  coming. 

I  can't  marry  you,  old  man — although  I  love  you 
better  than  I  ever  thought  I'd  love  anyone.  You 


234  MUFTI 

know  the  reasons  why,  so  I  won't  labour  them  again. 
They  may  be  right  and  they  may  be  wrong;  I  don't 
know — I've  given  up  trying  to  think.  I  suppose  one's 
got  to  take  this  world  as  it  is,  and  not  as  it  might  be 
if  we  had  our  own  way.  .  .  .  And  I  can't  buy  my 
happiness  with  Bland  ford,  Derek — I  just  can't. 

I  went  down  there  the  morning  after  Our  Day — oh! 
my  God!  boy,  how  I  loved  that  time — and  I  saw  Fa- 
ther. He  was  just  broken  down  with  it  all ;  he  seemed 
an  old,  old  man.  And  after  luncheon  in  the  study  he 
told  me  all  about  it.  I  didn't  try  to  follow  all  the 
facts  and  figures — what  was  the  use?  I  just  sat  there 
looking  out  over  Bland  ford — my  home — and  I  realised 
that  very  soon  it  would  be  that  no  longer.  I  even  saw 
the  horrible  man  smoking  his  cigar  with  the  band  on 
it  in  Father's  chair. 

Derek,  my  dear — what  could  I  do?  I  knew  that  I 
could  save  the  situation  if  I  wanted  to;  I  knew  that  it 
was  my  happiness  and  yours,  my  dear,  that  would  have 
to  be  sacrificed  to  do  it.  But  when  the  old  Dad  put 
his  arm  round  my  waist  and  raised  his  face  to  mine — 
and  his  dear  mouth  was  all  working — I  just  couldn't 
bear  it. 

So  I  lied  to  him,  Derek.  I  told  him  that  Mr.  Baxter 
loved  me,  and  that  I  loved  Mr.  Baxter.  Two  lies — 
for  that  man  merely  wants  me  as  a  desirable  addition 
to  his  furniture — and  I,  why  sometimes  I  think  I  hate 
him.  But,  oh!  my  dear,  if  you'd  seen  my  Father's 
face;  seen  the  dawning  of  a  wonderful  hope.  ...  I 
just  couldn't  think  of  anything  except  him — and  so  I 
went  on  lying,  and  I  didn't  falter.  Gradually  he 
straightened  up;  twenty  years  seemed  to  slip  from 
him. 


MUFTI  235 

"My  dear,"  he  said.  "I  wouldn't  have  you  unhap- 
py; I  wouldn't  have  you  marry  any  man  you  didn't 
love.  But  if  you  do  love  him,  little  Joan,  if  you  do — • 
why  it  just  means  everything.  .  .  .  Baxter's  worth 
millions.  .  .  ." 

But  it  makes  one  laugh,  my  Derek,  doesn't  it  ?  laugh 
a  little  bitterly.  And  then  after  a  while  I  left  him,  and 
went  down  to  the  boat-house,  and  pulled  over  to  our 
weeping  willow.  But  I  couldn't  stop  there.  ...  I 
can't  try  myself  too  high.  I  guess  I'm  a  bit  weak 
where  you're  concerned,  boy — a  bit  weak.  And  I've 
got  to  go  through  with  this.  It's  my  job,  and  one 
can't  shirk  one's  job.  .  .  .  Only  sometimes  it  seems 
that  one  gets  saddled  with  funny  jobs,  doesn't  one? 
Try  to  see  my  point  of  view,  Derek ;  try  to  understand. 
If  it  was  only  me,  why,  then,  my  dear,  you  know 
what  would  be  the  result.  I  think  it  would  kill  me  if 
you  ever  thought  I  was  marrying  Mr.  Baxter  for  mon- 
ey for  myself.  .  .  . 

And  you'll  forget  me  in  time,  dear  lad — at  least,  I'm 
afraid  you  will.  That's  foolish,  isn't  it? — foolish  and 
weak ;  but  I  couldn't  bear  you  to  forget  me  altogether. 
Just  once  or  twice  you'll  think  of  me,  and  the  Blue 
Bird  that  we  kept  for  one  day  in  the  roses  at  Sonning. 
You'll  go  to  She  who  must  be  obeyed  and  I  hope  to 
God  I  never  meet  her.  .  .  .  For  I'll  hate  her,  loathe 
her,  detest  her. 

I'm  engaged  to  Mr.  Baxter.  I've  exacted  my  full 
price  to  the  uttermost  farthing.  Blandford  is  saved, 
or  will  be  on  the  day  I  marry  him.  We  are  neither  of 
us  under  any  illusions  whatever;  the  whole  thing  is  on 
an  eminently  business  footing.  .  .  .  We  are  to  be  mar- 
ried almost  at  once. 


236  MUFTI 

And  now,  dear,  I  am  going  to  ask  you  one  of  the 
big  things.  I  don't  want  you  to  answer  this  letter;  I 
don't  want  you  to  plead  with  me  to  change  my  mind. 
I  daren't  let  you  do  it,  my  man,  because,  as  I  said,  I'm 
so  pitifully  weak  where  you  are  concerned.  And  I 
don't  know  what  would  happen  if  you  were  to  take 
me  in  your  arms  again.  Why,  the  very  thought  of  it 
drives  me  almost  mad.  .  .  .  Don't  make  it  harder  for 
me,  darling,  than  it  is  at  present — please,  please,  don't. 

Mr.  Baxter  is  not  here  now,  and  I'm  just  vegetating 
with  the  Buttons  until  the  sale  takes  place — my  sale. 
They  were  talking  about  you  at  dinner  to-night,  and 
my  heart  started  pounding  until  I  thought  they  must 
have  heard  it  Do  you  wonder  that  I'm  frightened  of 
you  ?  Do  you  wonder  that  I  ask  you  not  to  write  ? 

It's  one  o'clock,  my  Derek,  and  I'm  cold — and  tired, 
awful  tired.  I  feel  as  if  the  soul  had  departed  out  of 
me;  as  if  everything  was  utterly  empty.  It  is  so  still 
and  silent  outside,  and  the  strange,  old-fashioned  ideas 
— do  you  remember  your  story? — have  been  sitting 
wistfully  beside  me  while  I  write.  Maybe  I'll  hear 
them  fluttering  sadly  away  as  I  close  down  the  en- 
velope. 

I  love  you,  my  darling,  I  love  you.  ...  I  don't 
know  why  Fate  should  have  decreed  that  we  should 
have  to  suffer  so,  though  perhaps  you'll  say  it's  my 
decree,  not  Fate's.  And  perhaps  you're  right ;  though 
to  me  it  seems  the  same  thing. 

Later  on,  when  I'm  a  bit  more  used  to  things,  we 
might  meet.  ...  I  can't  think  of  life  without  ever 
seeing  you  again ;  and  anyway,  I  suppose,  we're  bound 
to  run  across  one  another.  Only  just  at  the  moment  I 


MUFTI  237 

can't  think  of  any  more  exquisite  torture  than  seeing 
you  as  another  woman's  husband.  .  .  . 

Good-night,  my  dear,  dear  Love,  God  bless  and 
keep  you. 

JOAN. 

Oh!  Boy— what  Hell  it  all  is,  what  utter  Hell! 

The  fire  was  burning  low  in  the  grate  as  Vane  laid 
the  letter  down  on  the  table  beside  him.  Bolshevism, 
strikes,  wars — of  what  account  were  they  all  com- 
bined, besicu  the  eternal  problem  of  a  man  and  a  wom- 
an ?  For  a  v  iiile  he  sat  motionless  staring  at  the  dying 
embers,  and  then  with  a  short,  bitter  laugh  he  rose 
to  his  feet. 

"It's  no  go,  my  lady,"  he  muttered  to  himself. 
"Thank  Heaven  I  know  the  Buttons.  ,  ." 


CHAPTER  XV 

VANE  stepped  into  the  train  at  Victoria  the  fol- 
lowing afternoon,  and  took  his  seat  in  the  Pull- 
man car.  It  was  a  non-stop  to  Lewes,  and  a  ticket 
for  that  place  reposed  in  his  pocket.  What  he  was 
going  to  do — what  excuse  he  was  going  n  make,  he 
had  not  yet  decided.  Although  he  knew  the  Buttons 
very  well,  he  felt  that  it  would  look  a  little  strange  if 
he  suddenly  walked  into  their  house  unannounced ;  and 
he  had  been  afraid  of  wiring  or  telephoning  from  Lon- 
don in  case  he  should  alarm  Joan.  He  felt  vaguely 
that  something  would  turn  up  which  would  give  him 
the  excuse  he  needed;  but  in  the  meantime  his  brain 
was  in  an  incoherent  condition.  Only  one  thought 
rose  dominantly  above  all  the  others,  and  it  mocked 
him,  and  laughed  at  him,  and  made  him  twist  and  turn 
restlessly  in  his  seat.  Joan  was  going  to  marry  Bax- 
ter. .  .  .  Joan  was  going  to  marry  Baxter.  .  .  . 

The  rattle  of  the  wheels  sang  it  at  him;  it  seemed 
to  fit  in  with  their  rhythm,  and  he  crushed  the  paper 
he  was  holding  savagely  in  his  hand.  By  Heaven! 
she's  not.  .  .  .  By  Heaven !  she's  not.  .  .  .  Fiercely 
and  doggedly  he  answered  the  taunting  challenge, 
while  the  train  rushed  on  through  the  meadows  and 
woods  of  Sussex.  It  slowed  down  for  the  Wivels- 
field  curve,  and  then  gathered  speed  again  for  the  last 
few  miles  to  Lewes.  With  gloomy  eyes  he  saw  Plump- 

238 


MUFTI  239 

ton  racecourse  flash  by,  and  he  recalled  the  last  meet- 
ing he  had  attended  there,  two  years  before  the  war. 
Then  they  roared  through  Cooksbridge  and  Vane 
straightened  himself  in  his  seat.  In  just  about  a  min- 
ute he  would  come  in  sight  of  Melton  House,  lying 
amongst  the  trees  under  the  South  Downs.  And  Vane 
was  in  the  condition  when  a  fleeting  glance  of  the 
house  that  sheltered  Joan  was  like  a  drink  of  water  to 
a  thirsty  man.  It  came  and  went  in  a  second,  and 
with  a  sigh  that  was  almost  a  groan  he  leaned  back 
and  stared  with  unseeing  eyes  at  the  high  hills  which 
flank  the  valley  of  the  Ouse,  with  their  great  white 
chalk  pits,  and  rolling  grass  slopes. 

He  had  determined  to  go  to  an  hotel  for  the  night, 
and  next  day  to  call  at  Melton  House.  During  the 
evening  he  would  have  to  concoct  some  sufficiently 
plausible  tale  to  deceive  the  Buttons  as  to  the  real  rea- 
son for  having  come — but  sufficient  unto  the  evening 
was  the  worry  thereof.  He  walked  slowly  up  the 
steep  hill  that  led  into  the  High  Street,  and  booked  a 
room  at  the  first  inn  he  came  to.  Then  he  went  out 
again,  and  sauntered  round  aimlessly. 

The  town  is  not  full  of  wild  exhilaration,  and 
Vane's  previous  acquaintance  with  it  had  been  formed 
on  the  two  occasions  when  he  had  attended  race-meet- 
ings there.  Moreover,  it  is  very  full  of  hills  and  after 
a  short  while  Vane  returned  to  his  hotel  and  sat  down 
in  the  smoking-room.  It  was  unoccupied  save  for  one 
man  who  appeared  to  be  of  the  genus  commercial  trav- 
eller, and  Vane  sank  into  a  chair  by  the  fire.  He  picked 
up  an  evening  paper  and  tried  to  read  it,  but  in  a  very 
few  moments  it  dropped  unheeded  to  the  floor.  .  .  . 


240  MUFTI 

"Know  these  parts  well,  sir?'*  the  man  opposite  him 
suddenly  broke  the  silence. 

"Hardly  at  all,"  returned  Vane  shortly.  He  was  in 
no  mood  for  conversation. 

"Sleepy  old  town,"  went  on  the  other;  "but  having 
all  these  German  prisoners  has  waked  it  up  a  bit." 

Vane  sat  up  suddenly.  "Oh !  have  they  got  prison- 
ers here  ?"  The  excuse  he  had  been  looking  for  seemed 
to  be  to  hand. 

"Lots.  They  used  to  have  conscientious  objectors — 
but  they  couldn't  stand  them.  ..."  He  rattled  on 
affably,  but  Vane  paid  no  heed.  He  was  busy  trying 
to  think  under  what  possible  pretext  he  could  have 
been  sent  down  to  deal  with  Boche  prisoners.  And 
being  a  man  of  discernment  it  is  more  than  likely  he 
would  have  evolved  something  quite  good,  but  for  the 
sudden  and  unexpected  arrival  of  old  Mr.  Sutton  him- 
self. .  .  . 

"Good  Heavens!  What  are  you  doing  here,  my 
dear  boy?"  he  cried,  striding  across  the  room,  and 
shaking  Vane's  hand  like  a  pump  handle. 

"How'd  you  do,  sir,"  murmured  Vane.  "I — er — 
have  come  down  to  inquire  about  these  confounded 
conscientious  prisoners — Boche  objectors — you  know 
the  blighters.  Question  of  standardising  their  rations, 
don't  you  know.  .  .  .  Sort  of  a  committee  af- 
fair. .  .  ." 

Vane  avoided  the  eye  of  the  commercial  traveller, 
and  steered  rapidly  for  safer  ground.  "I  was  think- 
ing of  coming  out  to  call  on  Mrs.  Sutton  to-morrow." 

"To-morrow,"  snorted  the  kindly  old  man.  "You'll 
do  nothing  of  the  sort,  my  boy.  You'll  come  back 
with  me  now — this  minute.  Merciful  thing  I  hap- 


MUFTI  241 

pened  to  drop  in.  Got  the  car  outside  and  everything. 
How  long  is  this  job,  whatever  it  is — going  to  take 
you?" 

"Three  or  four  days,"  said  Vane  hoping  that  he  was 
disguising  any  untoward  pleasure  at  the  suggestion. 

"And  can  you  do  it  equally  well  from  Melton?"  de- 
manded Mr.  Sutton.  "I  can  send  you  in  every  morn- 
ing in  the  car." 

Vane  banished  the  vision  of  breakers  ahead,  and 
decided  that  he  could  do  the  job  admirably  from  Mel- 
ton. 

"Then  come  right  along  and  put  your  bag  in  the 
car."  The  old  gentleman,  with  his  hand  on  Vane's 
arm,  rushed  him  out  of  the  smoking-room,  leaving  the 
commercial  traveller  pondering  deeply  as  to  whether 
he  had  silently  acquiesced  in  a  new  variation  of  the 
confidence  trick.  .  .  . 

"We've  got  Joan  Devereux  staying  with  us,"  said 
Mr.  Sutton,  as  the  chauffeur  piled  the  rugs  over  them. 
"You  know  her,  don't  you?" 

"We  have  met,"  answered  Vane  briefly. 

"Just  engaged  to  that  fellow  Baxter.  Pots  of  mon- 
ey." The  car  turned  out  on  to  the  London  road,  and 
the  old  man  rambled  on  without  noticing  Vane's  ab- 
straction. "Deuced  good  thing  too — between  our- 
selves. Sir  James — her  father,  you  know — was  in  a 
very  queer  street.  .  .  .  Land,  my  boy,  is  the  devil  these 
days.  Don't  touch  it ;  don't  have  anything  to  do  with 
it.  You'll  burn  your  fingers  if  you  do.  ...  Of  course, 
Bland  ford  is  a  beautiful  place,  and  all  that,  but,  'pon 
my  soul,  I'm  not  certain  that  he  wouldn't  have  been 
wiser  to  sell  it.  Not  certain  we  all  wouldn't  be  wiser 
to  sell,  and  go  and  live  in  furnished  rooms  at  Margate 


242  MUFTI 

.  .  .  Only  if  we  all  did,  it  would  become  the  thing  to 
do,  and  we'd  soon  get  turned  out  of  there  by  success- 
ful swindlers.  They  follow  one  round,  confound  'em 
• — trying  to  pretend  they  talk  the  same  language." 

"When  is  Miss  Devereux  going  to  be  married?" 
asked  Vane  as  the  old  man  paused  for  breath. 

"Very  soon.  .  .  .  Fortnight  or  three  weeks.  Quite 
a  quiet  affair,  you  know;  Baxter  is  dead  against  any 
big  function.  Besides,  he  has  to  run  over  to  France 
so  often,  and  so  unexpectedly,  that  it  might  have  to  be 
postponed  a  day  or  two  at  the  last  moment.  Makes 
it  awkward  if  half  London  has  been  asked." 

The  car  swung  through  the  gates  and  rolled  up  the 
drive  to  the  house.  The  brown  tints  of  autumn  were 
just  beginning  to  show  on  the  trees,  and  an  occasional 
fall  of  dead  leaves  came  fluttering  down  as  they  passed 
underneath.  Then,  all  too  quickly  for  Vane,  they 
were  at  the  house,  and  the  chauffeur  was  holding  open 
the  door  of  the  car.  Now  that  he  was  actually  there 
— now  that  another  minute  would  bring  him  face  to 
face  with  Joan — he  had  become  unaccountably 
nervous. 

He  followed  Mr.  Sutton  slowly  up  the  steps,  and 
spent  an  unnecessarily  long  time  taking  off  his  coat. 
He  felt  rather  like  a  boy  who  had  been  looking  for- 
ward intensely  to  his  first  party,  and  is  stricken  with 
shyness  just  as  he  enters  the  drawing-room. 

"Come  in,  come  in,  my  boy,  and  get  warm."  Mr. 
Sutton  threw  open  a  door.  "Mary,  my  dear,  who  do 
you  think  I  found  in  Lewes?  Young  Derek  Vane— ^ 
I've  brought  him  along.  .  .  . " 

Vane  followed  him  into  the  room  as  he  was  speak- 
ing, and  only  he  noticed  that  Joan  half  rose  from  her 


MUFTI  243 

chair,  and  then  sank  back  again,  while  a  wave  of  colour 
flooded  her  cheeks,  and  then  receded,  leaving  them 
deathly  white.  With  every  pulse  in  his  body  hammer- 
ing, but  outwardly  quite  composed,  Vane  shook  hands 
with  Mrs.  Sutton. 

"So  kind  of  your  husband/'  he  murmured.  "He 
found  me  propping  up  the  hotel  smoking-room,  and 
rescued  me  from  such  a  dreadful  operation.  ..." 

Mrs.  Sutton  beamed  on  him.  "But  it's  delightful, 
Captain  Vane.  I'm  so  glad  you  could  come.  Let  me 
see — you  know  Miss  Devereux,  don't  you?" 

Vane  turned  to  Joan,  and  for  the  moment  their 
eyes  met.  "I  think  I  have  that  pleasure,"  he  said  in 
a  low  voice.  "I  believe  I  have  to  congratulate  you, 
Miss  Devereux,  on  your  approaching  marriage." 

He  heard  Joan  give  a  gasp,  and  barely  caught  her 
whispered  answer:  "My  God!  why  have  you  come?" 

He  turned  round  and  saw  that  both  the  old  people 
were  occupied  for  a  moment.  "Why,  just  to  congrat- 
ulate you,  dear  lady  .  .  .  just  to  congratulate  you." 
His  eyes  burned  into  hers,  and  his  voice  was  shaking, 
"Why  else,  Joan,  why  else?" 

Then  Mrs.  Sutton  began  to  talk,  and  the  conrersa* 
tion  became  general. 

"It's  about  these  German  prisoners;  they're  giving  a 
bit  of  trouble,"  Vane  said  in  answer  to  her  question. 
"And  so  we've  formed  a  sort  of  board  to  investigate 
their  food  and  general  conditions  .  .  .  and — er — I  am 
one  of  the  board." 

"How  very  interesting/'  said  the  old  lady.  "Have 
you  been  on  it  for  long?" 

"No — not  long.  In  fact,"  said  Vane  looking  fixed- 
ly at  Joan,  "I  only  got  my  orders  last  night.  ..." 


244  MUFTI 

With  the  faintest  flicker  of  a  smile  he  watched  the 
tell-tale  colour  come  and  go. 

Then  she  turned  on  him,  and  her  expression  was  a 
little  baffling.  "And  have  you  any  special  qualifica- 
tion, Captain  Vane,  for  dealing  with  such  an  intricate 
subject?" 

"Intricate!"  He  raised  his  eyebrows.  "I  should 
have  thought  it  was  very  simple.  Just  a  matter  of 
common  sense,  and  making  ...  er  ...  these  men 
; — well — get  their  sense  of  proportion." 

"You  mean  making  them  get  your  sense  of  propor- 
tion?" 

"In  some  cases  there  can  be  only  one,"  said  Vane 
gravely. 

"And  that  one  is  your  own.  These — German  pris- 
oners you  said,  didn't  you? — these  German  prisoners 
may  think  it  their  duty  to  disagree  with  your  views. 
Doubtless  from  patriotic  motives.  ..." 

"That  would  be  a  great  pity,"  said  Vane.  "It  would 
then  be  up  to  me  to  make  them  see  the  error  of  their 
ways." 

"And  if  you  fail?"  asked  the  girl. 

"Somehow  I  don't  think  I  shall,"  he  answered  slow- 
ly. "But  if  I  do — the  trouble  of  which  I  spoke  will 
not  diminish.  It  will  increase.  ..." 

"We  pander  too  much  to  these  swine,"  grumbled  Mr. 
Sutton.  "It  makes  me  sick  when  I  hear  of  the  way 
our  boys  are  treated  by  the  brutes.  A  damn  good  flog- 
ging twice  a  day — you'll  pardon  my  language,  is  what 
they  want." 

"Yes — drastic  measures  can  be  quite  successful  at 
times,"  said  Vane,  with  a  slight  smile.  "Unfortunately 
in  our  present  advanced  state  of  civilisation  public 


MUFTI  245 

opinion  is  against  flogging.  It  prefers  violence  against 
the  person  to  be  done  mentally  rather  than  physically. 
.  .  .  And  it  seems  so  short-sighted,  doesn't  it?  The 
latter  is  transitory,  while  the  other  is  permanent.  ..." 

Joan  rose  and  looked  at  him  quietly.  "How  de- 
lightful to  meet  a  man  who  regards  anything  as  per- 
manent these  days.  I  should  have  thought  we  were 
living  in  an  age  of  ever-changing  values.  ..." 

"You're  quite  wrong,  Miss  Devereux,"  said  Vane. 
"Quite,  quite  wrong.  The  little  things  may  change — 
the  froth  on  the  top  of  the  pool,  which  everyone  sees 
and  knows  about;  but  the  big  fundamental  things  are 
always  the  same.  ..." 

"And  what  are  your  big  fundamental  things?"  she 
demanded. 

Vane  looked  at  her  for  a  few  moments  before  he 
answered  her  lightly.  "Things  on  which  there  can 
be  no  disagreement  even  though  they  are  my  own 
views.  Love  and  the  pleasure  of  congenial  work,  and 
health.  .  .  .  Just  think  of  having  to  live  permanently 
with  anybody  whose  digestion  has  gone.  .  .  . " 

"May  you  never  have  to  do  it,"  said  the  girl  quietly. 
Then  she  turned  and  walked  towards  the  door.  "I 
suppose  it's  about  time  to  dress,  isn't  it?"  She  went 
out  of  the  room  and  Mr.  Sutton  advanced  on  Vane* 
with  his  hand  upraised,  like  the  villain  of  a  melodrama 
when  on  the  point  of  revealing  a  secret,  unaware  of 
the  comic  relief  ensconced  in  the  hollow  tree. 

"My  dear  fellow,"  he  whispered  hoarsely.  "You've 
said  the  wrong  thing."  He  peered  round  earnestly  at 
the  door,  to  make  sure  Joan  had  not  returned.  "Bax- 
ter— the  man  she's  going  to  marry — is  a  perfect  mar- 
tyr to  indigestion.  It  is  the  one  thorn  in  the  rose.  A 


24<5  MUFTI 

most  suitable  match  in  every  other  way,  but  He  lives" 
— and  the  old  gentleman  tapped  Vane  on  the  shoulder 
to  emphasise  this  hideous  thing — "he  lives  on  rusks 
and  soda-water." 

Vane  threw  the  end  of  his  cigarette  in  the  fire  and 
laughed.  "There's  always  a  catch  somewhere,  isn't 
there,  Mr.  Sutton?  ....  I'm  afraid  I  shall  have  to 
ask  you  to  excuse  my  changing;  I've  only  got  this 
khaki  with  me." 

Vane  was  standing  in  front  of  the  big  open  hearth  in 
the  hall  when  Joan  came  down  for  dinner.  It  was  the 
first  time  he  had  seen  her  in  an  evening  dress,  and  as 
she  came  slowly  towards  him  from  the  foot  of  the 
stairs  his  hands  clenched  behind  his  back,  and  he  set 
his  teeth.  In  her  simple  black  evening  frock  she  was 
lovely  to  the  point  of  making  any  man's  senses  swim 
dizzily.  And  when  the  man  happened  to  be  in  love 
with  her,  and  knew,  moreover,  that  she  was  in  love 
with  him,  it  was  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  he  put 
both  hands  to  his  head,  with  a  sudden  almost  despair- 
ing movement. 

The  girl,  as  she  reached  him,  saw  the  gesture,  and 
her  eyes  grew  very  soft.  Its  interpretation  was  not 
hard  to  discover,  even  if  she  had  not  had  the  grim, 
fixed  look  on  his  face  to  guide  her;  and  in  an  instant 
it  swept  away  the  resolve  she  had  made  in  her  room 
to  treat  him  coldly.  In  a  flash  of  clear  self -analysis 
just  as  she  reached  him,  she  recognised  the  futility  of 
any  such  resolve.  It  was  with  that  recognition  of  her 
weakness  that  fear  came.  ...  All  her  carefully 
thought  out  plans  seemed  to  be  crumbling  away  like 
a  house  of  cards ;  all  that  she  wanted  was  to  be  in  his 


MUFTI  247 

arms  .  .  .to  be  kissed.  >  >:  .  And  yet  she  knew  that 
that  way  lay  folly.  .  .  . 

"Why  have  you  come?"  she  said  very  low.  "It 
wasn't  playing  the  game  after  what  I  wrote  you.  .  .  . " 

Vane  looked  at  her  in  silence  for  a  moment  and  then 
he  laughed.  "Are  you  really  going  to  talk  to  me, 
Joan,  about  such  a  thing  as  playing  the  game  ?" 

She  stood  beside  him  with  her  hands  stretched  out 
towards  the  blazing  logs.  "You  know  how  utterly 
weak  it  makes  me — being  near  you.  .  .  .  You're  just 
trading  on  it." 

"Well,"  said  Vane  fiercely,  "is  there  any  man  who 
is  a  man  who  wouldn't  under  the  circumstances?" 

"And  yet,"  she  said,  turning  and  facing  him  grave- 
ly, "you  know  what  is  at  stake  for  me."  Her  voice 
began  to  quiver.  "You're  playing  with  sex  .  .  .  sex 
.  .  .  sex,  and  it's  the  most  powerful  weapon  in  the 
world.  But  its  effects  are  the  most  transitory. " 

"You  lie,  Joan,  and  you  know  it,"  Vane  gripped  her 
arm.  "It's  not  the  most  transitory." 

"It  is,"  she  cried  stamping  her  foot,  "it  is.  Against 
it  on  the  other  side  of  the  balance  lie  the  happiness 
of  my  father  and  brother — Blandford — things  that 
last.  .  .  ." 

"But  what  of  your  own  happiness?"  he  asked 
grimly. 

"Why  do  you  think  I  shouldn't  be  happy?5'  she 
cried.  "I've  told  you  that  it's  a  purely  business  ar- 
rangement. Henry  is  very  nice  and  kind,  and  all  that 
I'll  be  missing  is  a  few  months  of  the  thing  thej  call 
Love.  ..." 

Vane  took  his  hand  from  her  arm,  and  let  it  fall  to 
his  side.  "I'm  afraid  I've  marked  your  arm,"  he  said 


248  MUFTI 

quietly.  "I  didn't  know  how  hard  I  was  gripping  it. 
There  is  only  one  point  which  I  would  like  to  put  to 
you.  Has  it  occurred  to  you  that  in  the  business  ar- 
rangement which  you  have  outlined  so  delightfully,  it 
may  possibly  strike  Mr.  Baxter — in  view  of  his  great 
possessions — that  a  son  and  heir  is  part  of  the  con- 
tract ?"  As  he  spoke  he  raised  his  eyes  to  her  face. 

He  saw  her  whole  body  stiffen  as  if  she  had  been 
struck;  he  saw  her  bite  her  lip  with  a  sudden  little 
gasp,  he  saw  the  colour  ebb  from  her  cheeks.  Then 
she  recovered  herself. 

"Why,  certainly/'  she  said.  "I  have  no  doubt  that 
that  will  be  part  of  the  programme.  It  generally  is, 
I  believe,  in  similar  cases." 

Vane's  voice  was  very  tender  as  he  answered.  "My 
grey  girl,"  he  whispered,  "it  won't  do.  ...  It  just 
won't  do.  If  I  believed  that  what  you  say  really  ex- 
pressed what  you  think,-  don't  you  know  that  I'd  leave 
the  house  without  waiting  for  dinner?  But  they  don't. 
You  can't  look  me  in  the  eyes  and  tell  me  they 
do.  .  .  ." 

"I  can,"  she  answered  defiantly;  "that  is  what  I 
think.  ..." 

"Look  me  in  the  eyes,  I  said,"  interrupted  Vane 
quietly. 

Twice  she  tried  to  speak,  and  twice  she  failed.  Then 
with  a  little  half -strangled  gasp  she  turned  away.  .  .  . 
"You  brute,"  she  said,  and  her  voice  was  shaking, 
"you  brute.  ..." 

And  as  their  host  came  down  the  stairs  to  join  them, 
Vane  laughed — a  short,  triumphant  laugh.  .  .  . 

Almost  at  once  they  went  in  to  dinner ;  and  to  Vane 
the  meal  seemed  to  be  a  succession  of  unknown  dishes, 


MUFTI  249 

which  from  time  to  time  partially  distracted  his  atten- 
tion from  the  only  real  thing  in  the  room — the  girl 
sitting  opposite  him.  And  yet  he  flattered  himself 
that  neither  his  host  nor  hostess  noticed  anything  re- 
markable about  his  behaviour.  In  fact  he  considered 
that  he  was  a  model  of  tact  and  discretion.  ... 

Vane  was  drunk — drunk  as  surely  as  a  man  goes 
drunk  on  wine.  He  was  drunk  with  excitement;  he 
was  mad  with  the  madness  of  love.  At  times  he  felt 
that  he  must  get  up,  and  go  round  the  table  and  gather 
his  girl  into  his  arms.  He  even  went  so  far  as  to  pic- 
ture the  butler's  expression  when  he  did  it.  Unfortu- 
nately, that  was  just  when  Mrs.  Sutton  had  concluded  a 
harrowing  story  of  a  dead  soldier  who  had  left  a  bed- 
ridden wife  with  thirteen  children.  Vane  had  not 
heard  a  word  of  the  story,  but  the  butler's  face  had 
crossed  his  mental  horizon  periodically,  and  he  chose 
that  moment  to  laugh.  It  was  not  a  well-timed  laugh, 
but  he  floundered  out  of  it  somehow.  ... 

And  then  just  as  the  soup  came  on — or  was  it  the 
savoury? — he  new,  as  surely  as  he  could  see  her  op- 
posite him,  that  his  madness  was  affecting  Joan.  Tel- 
epathy, the  wiseacres  may  call  it,  the  sympathy  of  two 
subconscious  minds.  .  .  .  What  matter  the  peda- 
gogues, what  matter  the  psychological  experts?  It 
was  love: — glorious  and  wonderful  in  its  very  lack  of 
restraint.  It  was  the  man  calling  the  woman ;  it  was 
the  woman  responding  to  the  man.  It  was  freedom, 
beauty,  madness  all  rolled  into  one;  it  was  the  only 
thing  in  this  world  that  matters.  But  all  the  time  he 
was  very  careful  not  to  give  away  the  great  secret. 
Just  once  or  twice  their  eyes  met,  and  whenever  that 
happened  he  made  some  remark  more  inordinately 


250  MUFTI 

witty  than  usual — or  more  inordinately  foolish.  And 
the  girl  opposite  helped  him,  and  laughed  with  him, 
while  over  the  big  mahogany  table  there  came  leaping 
her  real  message — "My  dear,  I'm  yours.  ..."  It 
whispered  through  the  flowers  in  the  big  cut-glass  bowl 
that  formed  the  centrepiece;  it  echoed  between  the 
massive  silver  candlesticks  with  their  pink  shaded 
lights.  At  times  it  sounded  triumphantly  from  every 
corner  of  the  room,  banishing  all  the  commonplace 
surroundings  with  the  wonder  of  its  voice;  at  times  it 
floated  softly  through  the  warm,  scented  air,  conjuring 
up  visions  of  nights  on  the  desert  with  the  Nile  lapping 
softly  on  the  hot  sand,  and  the  cries  of  the  Waterboys 
coming  faintly  through  the  still  air. 

But  ever  and  always  it  was  there,  dominating  every- 
thing, so  insistent  was  its  reality.  As  assuredly  as  if 
the  words  had  been  spoken  did  they  see  into  one  anoth- 
er's hearts  that  evening  at  dinner  while  a  worthy  old 
Sussex  squire  and  his  wife  discussed  the  war,  and 
housing  problems,  and  the  futility  of  fixing  such  a 
price  on  meat  that  it  paid  farmers  to  put  their  calves  to 
the  cow,  instead  of  selling  the  milk.  After  all,  the 
words  had  been  spoken  before,  and  words  are  of  little 
account.  There  are  times — not  often,  for  artificiality 
and  civilisation  are  stern  taskmasters — but  there  are 
times  when  a  man  and  woman  become  as  Gods  and 
know.  What  need  of  words  between  them  then;  a 
mathematician  does  not  require  to  consult  the  multi- 
plication table  or  look  up  the  rules  that  govern  addi- 
tion and  subtraction. 

But  the  condition  is  dangerous — very  dangerous. 
For  the  Law  of  the  Universe  has  decreed  that  for 
every  Action  there  is  an  equal  and  opposite  Reaction. 


MUFTI  251 

No  account  may  be  taken  of  madness — even  though  it 
be  Divine.  It  avails  not  one  jot  when  the  time  comes 
to  foot  the  bill.  By  that  time  the  madness  has  passed, 
like  a  dream  in  the  night,  and  cold  sanity  is  the  judge 
before  which  a  man  must  stand  or  fall.  A  few,  may- 
be, there  are  who  cheat  the  reckoning  for  a  space ;  but 
they  live  in  a  Fools'  Paradise.  Sooner  or  later  the 
bill  is  presented.  It  must  be — for  such  is  the  Law  of 
Things  as  they  Are.  .  .  .  And  all  that  a  man  may 
pray  for  is  that  he  gets  good  value  for  his  money. 

After  dinner  Joan  sang  once  or  twice,  and  Vane, 
from  the  depths  of  a  chair  near  the  fire,  watched  her 
through  half-closed  eyes.  His  hostess  was  placidly 
knitting  and  the  old  gentleman  was  openly  and  un- 
ashamedly asleep.  The  girl  had  a  small  voice,  but 
very  sweet  and  pure ;  and,  after  a  while  Vane  rose  and 
went  over  to  the  piano.  With  his  elbow  resting  on  it 
he  stood  there  looking  down  at  her,  and  once,  as  their 
eyes  met,  her  voice  faltered  a  little. 

"Ah  !  when  Love  comes,  his  wings  are  swift, 
His  ways  are  full  of  quick  surprise; 
Tis  well  for  those  who  have  the  gift 
To  seize  him  even  as  he  flies.  .  .  ." 

She  sang  the  simple  Indian  love  song  with  a  sort  of 
wistful  tenderness,  and  it  seemed  to  the  man  watching 
her  as  if  she  was  singing  to  herself  rather  than  to  him. 
It  was  as  the  last  note  of  the  refrain  trembled  and 
died  away  that  Mr.  Sutton  awoke  with  a  loud  snort 
and  looked  around  guiltily.  Quite  satisfied  that  no 
one  had  observed  his  lapse,  he  got  up  and  strode  over 
to  the  piano. 


252  MUFTI 

"Delightful,  my  dear,  delightful,"  he  said  heartily. 
"My  favourite  tune."  The  number  of  the  old  gentle- 
man's favourite  tunes  heard  under  similar  circum- 
stances was  large. 

"Come  along,  my  boy,"  he  went  on,  turning  to  Vane. 
"Pool  or  billiards,  and  let's  see  if  the  old  man  can't 
show  you  a  thing  or  two." 

With  an  inward  groan  Vane  professed  himself  de- 
lighted. "Perhaps  Miss  Devereux  will  come  and  score 
for  us,"  he  murmured. 

"Do,  my  love,"  said  Mrs.  Sutton.  "And  then  I'll 
go  to  bed." 

If  Vane  remembered  little  of  dinner  that  evening, 
he  remembered  still  less  about  the  game  of  billiards 
except  that  he  was  soundly  beaten,  to  Mr.  Button's 
great  delight,  and  chat  he  laughed  quite  a  lot  over  silly 
little  jokes.  Every  now  and  then  he  stood  beside  Joan 
at  the  scoring  board,  and  touched  her  arm  or  her  hand ; 
and  once,  when  his  host,  intent  on  some  shot,  had  his 
back  towards  them,  he  bent  very  quickly  and  kissed 
her  on  the  lips.  And  he  felt  her  quiver,  and  then  grow 
rigid  at  his  touch. 

He  played  execrably,  and  when  he  tried  to  pull  him- 
self together  to  get  the  game  done  quicker,  he  played 
worse.  If  only  the  old  man  would  go  to  bed,  or  some- 
thing, and  leave  them.  ...  If  only  he  could  get  a 
few  moments  alone  with  Joan,  just  to  kiss  her,  and 
take  her  in  his  arms.  But  the  old  man  showed  no  signs 
of  doing  anything  of  the  sort.  He  did  not  often  get 
a  game  of  billiards;  he  still  less  often  beat  anybody, 
and  he  fully  intended  to  make  the  most  of  it.  Then 
at  last,  when  the  game  was  finally  over,  he  played  half 
of  his  shots  over  again  for  practice.  And  Vane,  with 


MUFTI  253 

his  cue  grasped  in  both  hands,  contemplated  braining 
him  with  the  butt.  .  .  . 

But  worse  was  still  to  come.  Mr.  Sutton  prided 
himself  on  being  old  fashioned.  Early  to  bed  and 
early  to  rise,  a  proverb  which  Vane  had  always  con- 
sidered the  most  detestable  in  the  English  language, 
was  one  of  his  host's  favourite  texts.  Especially  when 
applied  to  other  people.  .  .  . 

"Now,  my  dear,"  he  said  to  Joan  after  he  had 
missed  an  easy  cannon  three  times,  and  felt  he  re- 
quired a  little  justification,  "off  you  go  to  bed.  Can't 
have  you  missing  your  beauty  sleep  so  close  to  your 
marriage,  or  I'll  have  Baxter  down  on  me  like  a  ton 
of  bricks." 

Vane  turned  abruptly  to  the  fire,  and  it  is  to  be 
feared  that  his  thoughts  were  not  all  they  might  have 
been.  In  fact,  he  registered  a  mental  vow  that  if 
ever  he  was  privileged  to  meet  a  murderer,  he  would 
shake  him  warmly  by  the  hand. 

"Good  night,  Captain  Vane."  Joan  was  standing 
beside  him,  holding  out  her  hand.  "I  don't  think  you 
were  playing  very  well  to-night,  were  you?" 

The  next  moment  the  door  had  closed  behind  her, 
and  Vane  turned  slowly  to  answer  some  question  of 
his  host's.  And  as  he  turned  he  laughed  softly  under 
his  breath.  For  Joan  had  not  even  looked  at  him  as 
she  said  "Good  night,"  and  though  the  room  was 
warm,  almost  to  stuffiness,  her  hand  had  been  as  cold 
as  ice. 

Vane  closed  the  door  of  his  room,  and  went  thought- 
fully over  to  the  fire.  He  was  feeling  more  or  less 


254  MUFTI 

dazed,  like  a  man  who  has  been  through  a  great  strain, 
and  finds  for  the  moment  some  temporary  respite. 

He  did  not  profess  to  account  for  it ;  he  did  not  even 
try  to.  There  had  been  other  days  that  he  had  spent 
with  Joan — days  when  he  had  been  far  more  physically 
close  to  her  than  he  had  been  that  evening.  Save  for 
that  one  brief  kiss  in  the  billiard-room  he  had  barely 
touched  her.  And  yet  he  felt  more  vividly  alive  to  her 
presence  than  he  had  ever  been  before. 

Vane  was  no  psychologist,  and  any  way  the  psychol- 
ogy of  sex  follows  no  rules.  It  makes  its  own  as  it 
goes  along.  And  the  one  thought  which  stood  out 
from  the  jumbled  chaos  in  his  brain  was  a  fierce  pleas- 
ure at  having  beaten  Baxter.  The  primitive  Cave  man 
was  very  much  alive  in  him  that  night.  .  .  . 

Joan  was  his;  he  knew  it,  and  she  knew  it — and 
there  was  no  more  to  be  said.  And  with  a  short,  ex- 
ultant laugh  Vane  drew  up  an  easy  chair  to  the  fire  and 
lit  a  cigarette.  He  heard  Mr.  Sutton  pass  along  the 
passage  and  go  to  his  own  room;  and  then  gradually 
the  house  grew  still.  Outside  the  night  was  silent,  and 
once  he  rose  and  went  to  the  window.  He  stood  there 
for  a  time  staring  out  into  the  darkness,  with  his  hands 
thrust  deep  in  his  pockets;  then  he  returned  to  his 
chair  again.  He  felt  no  wish  to  go  to  bed;  he  just 
wanted  to  sit  and  think  of  his  girl. 

Three  days  is  a  long  time  when  one  is  at  the  begin- 
ning of  it;  and  in  all  probability  they  would  give  him 
an  extension.  Three  days  with  Joan — three  whole 
complete  days.  ... 

They  would  go  for  a  few  long  glorious  tramps  over 
the  Downs,  where  the  turf  is  springy  to  the  foot,  and 
the  wind  comes  straight  from  the  grey  Atlantic,  and 


MUFTI  255 

the  salt  tang  of  it  makes  it  good  to  be  alive.  And 
then  one  afternoon  when  they  got  home  Joan  would 
find  a  telegram  awaiting  her  to  say  that  coal  had  been 
discovered  at  Bland  ford,  and  did  she  think  it  would 
matter  having  the  main  shaft  opening  into  the  dining- 
room? 

Something  like  that  was  bound  to  happen,  and  even 
if  it  didn't  things  would  be  no  worse  off  than  they  were 
now.  And  in  the  meantime — three  days.  .  .  .  For 
Vane  had  passed  beyond  the  thinking  stage;  he  was 
incapable  of  arguing  things  out  or  calling  a  halt  even 
if  he  wanted  to.  It  seemed  to  him  that  everything  was 
so  immeasurably  little  compared  with  the  one  great 
fact  that  Joan  loved  him. 

He  whistled  softly  under  his  breath,  and  started  to 
unlace  his  shoes.  "We'll  cheat  'em  yet,"  he  muttered, 
"some  old  how."  And  even  as  he  spoke  he  stiffened 
suddenly  and  stared  at  the  door.  On  it  had  come  two 
low  faltering  knocks.  .  .  . 

For  a  moment  he  remained  where  he  was,  incapable 
of  movement,  while  his  cigarette,  bent  in  two  and  torn, 
fell  unheeded  in  the  grate.  Every  drop  of  blood  in 
his  body  seemed  to  stand  still,  and  then  to  pound  madly 
on  again,  as  the  certainty  of  who  was  outside  came  to 
him.  Then  with  two  great  strides  he  crossed  to  the 
door,  and  opened  it.  ... 

"Joan,"  he  whispered,  "my  dear.  ..." 

She  was  in  a  silk  dressing-gown,  and  he  could  see 
the  lace  of  her  nightdress  through  the  opening  at  her 
neck.  Without  a  word  she  passed  by  him  into  the 
room,  and  crouched  over  the  fire ;  while  Vane,  with  his 
back  to  the  door,  stood  watching  her  with  dilated  eyes. 

"Lock  the  door."    He  heard  her  words  come  faintly 


256  MUFTI 

through  the  roaring  in  his  ears,  and  mechanically  he 
did  as  she  asked. 

Slowly,  with  short,  hesitating  steps  he  came  to- 
wards the  fire,  and  stood  beside  her,  while  his  nails 
cut  into  the  palms  of  his  hands.  Then  she  rose  and 
stood  facing  him. 

"You've  won,"  she  said  simply.  "I've  come  to  you." 
She  swayed  into  his  arms,  and  so  for  a  long  while  did 
they  stand,  while  the  man  twisted  the  great  masses  of 
hair  that  hung  over  her  shoulders  round  and  round  his 
fingers.  He  touched  her  forehead  and  her  cheeks  with 
hands  that  shook  a  little,  and  suddenly  he  kissed  her 
fiercely  on  the  lips — so  that  she  gasped,  and  began  to 
tremble.  He  could  feel  her  body  against  him  through 
the  thin  silk  wrap,  and  he  clasped  her  tighter  in  his 
arms  as  if  to  warm  her. 

"My  darling,"  he  whispered,  "you're  cold  .  .  .  so 
cold.  .  .  .  Take  my  dressing  gown.  .  .  . " 

But  the  girl  only  clung  to  him  the  more,  and  the 
man,  being  just  a  man,  felt  his  senses  beginning  to 
swim  with  the  wonder  of  it 

And  then  of  a  sudden  she  pushed  him  away,  and 
with  her  hands  on  the  mantelpiece  stared  into  the  fire. 

Vane's  breath  came  quickly.  She  looked  so  utterly 
desirable  with  the  red  glow  of  the  fire  lighting  up  her 
face,  and  her  hair  falling  about  her.  He  stretched  out 
his  hand  and  put  it  on  her  arm,  as  if  to  make  sure  that 
it  was  not  a  dream,  and  with  the  touch  of  his  fingers 
something  seemed  to  snap.  A  great  wave  of  colour 
flooded  her  face,  spreading  down  to  her  neck,  and  she 
began  to  shake  uncontrollably.  He  bent  over  her, 
whispering  in  her  ear,  and  suddenly  she  put  both  her 
arms  round  his  neck.  And  then  like  a  little  child  who 


MUFTI  257 

goes  to  its  mother  for  comfort  she  laid  her  head  on 
his  shoulder,  and  the  tears  came. 

He  soothed  her  gently,  stroking  her  hair  with  his 
hand,  and  gradually,  as  the  minutes  went  by,  the  rag- 
ing storm  in  his  mind  died  down,  and  gave  place  to  a 
wonderful  peace.  All  that  was  best  in  his  nature  was 
called  forth  by  the  girl  crying  so  gently  in  his  arms, 
and  with  a  little  flickering  smile  on  his  lips  he  stared 
at  the  flames  over  her  head. 

The  passion  had  left  him;  a  great  sense  of  protec- 
tion— man's  divine  heritage  through  the  ages — had 
taken  its  place. 

And  so  after  a  while  he  picked  her  up  in  his  arms 
and  laid  her  on  his  bed.  He  pulled  the  clothes  around 
her,  and  taking  her  ha"nd  in  his,  sat  down  on  a  chair 
by  her  side. 

All  through  the  night  he  watched  beside  her,  and  as 
he  listened  to  the  hall  clock  striking  the  hours,  gradu- 
ally the  realisation  of  what  he  must  do  came  to  him. 

For  he  had  not  beaten  Baxter;  he  had  only  beaten 
the  girl.  Baxter  still  stood  where  he  was.  Baxter 
still  represented  the  way  out  for  Joan.  As  a  rival — 
man  to  man — he  failed  to  count;  he  might  just  as  well 
have  been  Jones  or  Smith.  But  as  a  weapon  against 
the  order  of  things  Baxter  remained  where  he  was — ' 
the  winner. 

And  even  as  he  cursed  that  order  of  things,  it  struck 
him  with  a  sort  of  amazed  surprise  that  here  he  him-1 
self  was  actually  up  against  one  of  Ramage's  vested 
interests.  ...  If  Blandford  had  been  nationalised, 
the  problem  would  have  been  so  easy.  .  .  . 

He  moved  irritably  in  his  chair.  What  a  muddle 
the  whole  thing  was — what  a  muddle.  And  then  with 


258  MUFTI 

the  touch  of  a  woman  he  bent  over  the  sleeping  girl, 
and  wiped  away  two  tears  that  were  glistening  on  her 
eyelashes.  Poor  little  girl — poor  little  Joan.  .  .  . 

A  sense  of  overwhelming  pity  and  love  for  her 
drowned  every  other  thought.  Right  or  wrong,  she 
was  doing  what  she  believed  to  be  her  job;  and  now 
he  had  come  and  made  things  a  thousand  times  harder 
for  her. 

Very  gently  he  withdrew  his  hand  from  hers  and 
rose  from  his  chair.  He  made  up  the  fire  again,  and 
then  started  to  pace  slowly  up  and  down  the  room.  The 
drifting  period  was  over;  the  matter  had  to  be  settled 
now. 

;  (He  was  no  fool,  and  incidentally  he  knew  as  much 
about  women  as  a  man  may  know.  He  realised  ex- 
actly why  she  had  come  to  him  that  night;  as  clearly 
as  if  she  had  told  him  he  understood  the  wild  seething 
thoughts  in  her  mind,  the  chaos,  the  sense  of  futility. 
And  then  the  sudden  irresistible  longing  to  get  things 
settled — to  give  up  fighting — to  take  hold  of  happiness 
or  what  seemed  to  her  to  be  happiness  at  the  moment. 

And  supposing  the  mood  had  not  broken^suppos- 
ing  the  tears  had  not  come.  ...  He  stopped  in  his 
slow  walk,  and  stared  at  the  sleeping  girl  thoughtful- 
ly. ...  What  would  have  been  the  state  of  affairs  by 
now? 

"Sex — sex — sex.  The  most  powerful  thing  in  the 
world,  and  the  most  transitory."  Her  words  before 
dinner,  as  they  had  stood  in  the  hall  came  back  to  him, 
and  he  took  a  deep  breath.  That  was  the  weapon  he 
was  using  against  her ;  he  made  no  attempt  to  deceive 
himself  on  that  score.  After  all — why  not?  It  was 
the  weapon  that  had  been  used  since  the  beginning  of 


MUFTI  259 

things ;  it  was  the  weapon  which  would  continue  to  be 
used  till  the  end.  It  was  Nature's  weapon  .  .  .  and 
yet.  .  .  . 

Once  again  he  resumed  his  walk — six  steps  one  way, 
turn,  six  steps  back.  He  moved  slowly,  his  chin  sunk 
on  his  chest,  and  his  hands  twisting  restlessly  behind 
his  back.  Supposing  she  was  right,  supposing  in  a 
year,  or  in  five,  she  should  turn  on  him,  and  say: 
"Against  my  better  judgment  you  overruled  me.  Even 
though  I  loved  you,  even  though  I  still  love  you — you 
have  made  me  buy  my  happiness  at  too  great  a  price"? 

Supposing  she  should  say  that — what  then?  Had 
he  any  right  to  make  her  run  such  a  risk?  Was  it 
fair  ?  Again  and  again  he  turned  question  and  answer 
over  in  his  brain.  Of  course  it  was  fair — they  loved 
one  another;  and  love  is  the  biggest  thing  in  the  uni- 
verse. But  was  it  only  love  in  his  case — was  it  not 
overmastering  passion  as  well  ?  Well — what  if  it  was ; 
there  are  cases  where  the  two  cannot  be  separated — 
and  those  cases  are  more  precious  than  rubies.  Against 
such  it  were  laughable  to  put  the  fate  of  Bland  ford. 
...  Quite — but  whose  point  of  view  was  that — his 
or  hers? 

Vane  was  essentially  a  fair  man.  The  average 
Englishman  is  made  that  way — it  being  the  peculiar 
nature  of  the  brute.  If  anything — as  a  referee  or  a 
judge — he  will  give  the  decision  against  his  own  side, 
which  is  the  reason  why  England  has  spread  to  the 
ends  of  the  earth,  and  remained  there  at  the  express 
wish  of  the  Little  Peoples.  Bias  or  favouritism  are 
abhorrent  to  him ;  as  far  as  in  him  lies  the  Englishman 
weighs  the  pros  and  the  cons  of  the  case  and  gives  his 
decision  without  partiality  or  prejudice.  He  may. 


26o  MUFTI 

blunder  at  times,  but  the  blunder  is  honest  and  is  rec- 
ognised as  such. 

And  so  as  Vane  walked  restlessly  up  and  down  his 
room,  every  instinct  in  him  revolted  at  the  idea  of 
taking  advantage  of  an  emotional  crisis  such  as  he 
knew  had  been  stirred  in  Joan  that  evening.  It  seemed 
to  him  to  be  unfair. 

"It's  her  you've  got  to  consider,"  he  said  to  himself 
over  and  over  again.  "Only  her.  .  .  .  It's  she  who 
stands  to  lose — much  more  than  you." 

He  felt  that  he  would  go  right  away,  clean  out  of 
her  life — if,  by  doing  so,  it  would  help  her.  But  would 
it?  That  was  the  crux.  Was  he  justified  in  letting 
her  make  this  sacrifice?  As  clearly  as  if  he  had  seen 
it  written  in  letters  of  fire  upon  the  wall,  he  knew  that 
the  issue  lay  in  his  hands. 

Once  again  he  went  to  the  window  and  looked  out. 
In  the  east  the  first  streaks  of  dawn  were  showing  in 
the  sky,  and  for  a  long  while  he  stood  staring  at  them, 
motionless.  How  often  in  France  had  he  watched  that 
same  birth  of  a  new  day,  and  wondered  what  it  held  in 
store  for  him.  But  over  there  a  man  is  a  fatalist — 
his  part  is  allotted  to  him,  and  he  can  but  tread  the 
beaten  path  blindly.  Whereas  here,  however  much  one 
is  the  sport  of  the  gods  that  play,  there  comes  a  time 
when  one  must  play  oneself.  Incidentally  that  is  the 
part  of  the  performance  which  amuses  the  gods.  They 
plot  their  fantastic  jig-saws;  but  one  of  the  rules  is 
that  the  pieces  must  move  themselves.  And  of  their 
kindness  they  let  the  pieces  think  they  control  the 
movement.  .  .  . 

Suddenly  Vane  turned  round,  and  crossed  to  the 


MUFTI  261 

girl.    He  picked  her  up  in  his  arms,  and  having  silently 
opened  the  door  he  carried  her  to  her  room. 

Utterly  exhausted  and  worn  out,  she  barely  woke  up 
even  when  he  placed  her  in  her  own  cold  bed.  Her 
eyes  opened  drowisly  once,  and  he  bent  over  and  kissed 
her  gently. 

"Little  Joan,"  he  whispered.    "Dear  little  grey  girl." 
But  she  did  not  hear  him.    With  a  tired  sigh  she  had 
drifted  off  to  sleep  again. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

WHEN  Joan  woke  the  next  morning  it  was  with 
the  consciousness  that  something  had  hap- 
pened. And  then  the  events  of  the  last  night  flashed 
over  her  mind,  and  for  a  while  she  lay  very  still.  The 
details  seemed  all  hazy  and  blurred ;  only  the  main  fact 
stood  out  clear  and  dominant,  the  fact  that  she  had 
gone  to  his  room. 

After  that  things  got  a  bit.  confused.  She  had  a 
recollection  of  being  carried  in  his  arms,  of  his  bending 
over  her  and  whispering  "Little  Joan,"  of  his  kissing 
her — but  it  all  seemed  merged  in  an  exquisite  dream. 

"Oh !  my  dear,"  she  whispered,  while  the  love-light 
shone  in  her  grey  eyes;  "but  what  a  dear  you 
are.  .  .  ." 

By  the  very  nature  of  things  she  was  incapable  of 
realising  the  tremendous  strain  to  which  she  had  sub- 
jected him;  it  only  seemed  to  her  that  there  was  a 
new  and  wonderful  secret  to  share  with  him.  And  to 
the  girl,  still  under  the  influence  of  her  mood  of  the 
night  before,  the  secret  forged  the  final  link  in  the 
chain.  She  wondered  how  she  could  ever  have  hesi- 
tated ;  it  all  seemed  so  very  easy  and  obvious  now. 

Baxter,  Blandford — what  did  anything  matter? 
She  had  gone  to  Derek ;  the  matter  was  decided.  .  .  . 

Her  maid  came  into  the  room,  and  advanced  cau- 
tiously to  the  bed. 

262 


MUFTI  265 

"Ah!  but  Mam'selle  es  awake,"  she  said.  "And  ze 
tea,  mon  Dieu,  but  it  es  quite  cold." 

"What  time  is  it,  Celeste?"  asked  Joan. 

"Nine  o'clock,  Mam'selle.  "I  have  ze  dejeuner  out- 
side. And  a  note  from  M'sieur  le  Capitaine."  She 
held  out  an  envelope  to  Joan,  and  busied  herself  about 
the  room.  "Ah!  but  he  is  gentil — M'sieur  le  Capi- 
taine; young  and  of  a  great  air."  Celeste,  it  may  be 
stated,  viewed  Baxter  rather  like  a  noisome  insect. 

"Bring  me  my  breakfast,  please." 

Joan  waited  till  the  maid  had  left  the  room  before 
opening  the  envelope.  There  was  just  a  line  inside, 
and  her  eyes  grew  very  tender  as  she  read  the  words. 

"I've  got  something  to  say  to  you,  little  Joan,  which 
has  got  to  be  said  in  the  big  spaces.  Will  you  come 
out  with  me  this  morning  on  to  the  Downs?" 

She  read  it  through  half  a  dozen  times  and  then  she 
turned  to  Celeste. 

"Tell  Captain  Vane  that  I  will  be  ready  in  an  hour," 

she  said. 

***** 

Vane  was  standing  in  the  hall  when  Joan  appeared. 
A  faintly  tremulous  smile  was  on  her  lips,  but  she 
came  steadily  up  to  him  and  held  out  both  her  hands. 
"Good  morning,  my  lady,"  he  said  gently.    "Would 
you  to  be  liking  to  know  how  wonderful  you  look  ?" 
"Oh!  Derek,"  she  whispered.     "My  dear!" 
"Ostensibly  you  are  going  into  Lewes  to  shop,"  he 
remarked  with  a  grin.     "I  am  dealing  with  Boche 
prisoners.  ...  At  least  that's  what  I  told  our  worthy 
host  over  the  kidneys  at  breakfast.  ..." 

She  gave  a  little  happy  laugh.    "And  in  reality?" 
"We're  both  going  to  be  dropped  somewhere,  and 


264  MUFTI 

we're  going  to  tell  the  car  to  run  away  and  play,  while 
we  walk  home  over  the  Downs." 

"And  my  shopping?" 

"You  couldn't  find  anything  you  wanted." 

"And  your  prisoners  ?" 

"Well  the  only  thing  about  my  prisoners  that  is 
likely  to  give  the  show  away  is  if  I  turn  up  at  the 
prison,"  smiled  Vane.  "Let  us  hope  Mr.  Sutton 
doesn't  know  the  governor." 

And  suddenly  he  added  irrelevantly.  "Our  host 
was  a  little  surprised  that  you  failed  to  appear  at 
breakfast,  seeing  how  early  he  packed  you  off  to  bed." 
He  watched  the  slight  quickening  of  her  breath,  the 
faint  colour  dyeing  her  cheeks,  and  suddenly  the  reso- 
lution he  had  made  seemed  singularly  futile.  Then 
with  a  big  effort  he  took  hold  of  himself,  and  for 
greater  safety  put  both  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  "I 
think,"  he  remarked  quietly,  "you'd  better  go  and  get 
ready.  The  car  will  be  round  in  a  moment.  .  .  ." 

Without  a  word  she  left  him  and  went  upstairs  to 
her  room,  while  Vane  strolled  to  the  front  door.  The 
car  was  just  coming  out  of  the  garage,  and  he  nodded 
to  the  chauffeur. 

"Glorious  day,  isn't  it?" 

"Pity  you've  got  to  waste  it,  sir,  over  them  prison- 
ers," said  the  man. 

"Yes,"  agreed  Vane  thoughtfully.  "I'll  want  you 
to  drop  me  in  the  town,  and  then  I'll  walk  back  over 
the  Downs.  .  .  .  Splendid  day  for  a  walk.  .  .  ."  He 
turned  and  found  Joan  beside  him.  "And  lightning 
performance,"  he  smiled  at  her.  "I  won't  be  a  mo- 
ment." 

He  slipped  on  his  coat  and  handed  her  into  the 


MUFTI  265 

car.  "Drop  me  in  the  High  Street,  will  you — opposite 
to  the  Post  Office?"  he  said  to  the  chauffeur.  "I'm 
expecting  a  letter." 

"I'm  afraid,"  she  said,  as  the  car  rolled  down  the 
drive,  "that  like  most  men  you're  rather  prone  to 
overact."  With  a  little,  happy  laugh  she  snuggled 
up  to  him  and  slid  her  hand  into  his  under  the  rug. 

"I  shall  be  walking  home,  thank  you,  Thomas,"  said 
Joan  as  she  got  out  of  the  car,  and  the  man  stood  wait- 
ing for  orders. 

He  touched  his  cap,  and  they  stood  watching  the 
car  go  down  the  High  Street.  Then  she  turned  to 
Vane. 

"You'd  better  see  about  your  letters/'  she  said 
demurely.  "And  then  we  might  go  over  the  Castle. 
There  is  a  most  wonderful  collection  of  oleographic 
paleographs  brought  over  by  the  Americans  when 
they  discovered  England.  .  .  ." 

"In  one  second,"  threatened  Vane,  "I  shall  kiss  you. 
And  I  don't  know  that  they'd  understand  it  here.  .  .  ." 

"They'd  think  we  were  movie  actors,"  she  gurgled, 
falling  into  step  beside  him.  "Do  you  know  the 
way?" 

"In  the  days  of  my  unregenerate  youth  I  went  to 
the  races  here,"  he  answered.  "One  passes  a  prison 
or  something.  Anyway,  does  it  matter?" 

She  gave  a  sigh  of  utter  contentment.  "Nothing 
matters,  my  man — nothing  at  all — except  that  I'm  with 
you.  Only  I  want  to  get  out  into  the  open,  with  the 
fresh  wind  blowing  on  my  face — and  I  want  to  sing 
for  the  joy  of  it.  ...  Do  you  think  if  we  sang  up 
the  town  here  they'd  give  me  pennies?" 

"More  probably  lock  us  up  as  undesirable  vagrants," 


266  MUFTI 

laughed  Vane.  "It's  a  county  town  and  they're  rather 
particular.  I'm  not  certain  that  happiness  isn't  an 
offence  under  the  Defence  of  the  Realm  Act.  In- 
cidentally, I  don't  think  there  would  be  many  con- 
victions these  days.  .  .  ." 

She  stopped  for  a  moment  and  faced  him.  "That's 
not  allowed,  Derek ;  it's  simply  not  allowed." 

"Your  servant  craves  pardon,"  he  answered  gravely, 
and  for  a  while  they  walked  on  in  silence. 

They  passed  two  ragged  children  who  had  collected 
on  their  faces  more  dirt  than  seemed  humanly  possible, 
and  nothing  would  content  Joan  but  that  she  should 
present  each  with  a  sixpence. 

"Poor  little  devils,"  and  her  voice  was  very  soft. 
"What  a  life  to  ktok  forward  to,  Derek — what  a 
hideous  existence.  .  .  ." 

"It's  all  they've  ever  been  brought  up  to."  He 
put  sixpence  into  each  little  grubby  paw,  and  smiled 
down  at  the  awestruck  faces.  "Go  and  spend  it  all 
on  sweets,"  he  told  them,  "and  be  really,  wonderfully, 
happily  sick  for  once  in  your  lives.  .  .  ." 

And  then  at  last  they  turned  a  corner,  and  in  front 
of  them  stretched  the  Downs.  On  their  left  the 
grim,  frowning  prison  stood  sombre  and  apparently 
lifeless,  and  as  Joan  passed  it  she  gave  a  little  shudder. 

"Oh!  Boy,"  she  cried,  "isn't  it  impossible  to  get 
away  from  the  suffering  and  the  rottenness — even  for 
a  moment?"  She  shook  herself  as  if  to  cast  off  the 
mood,  and  stretched  out  her  arms  to  the  open  hills. 
"I'm  sorry,"  she  said  briefly.  "Come  into  the  big 
spaces  and  tell  me  what  you  want  to  say.  .  .  ." 

For  a  while  they  walked  on  over  the  clean-cut  turf 
and  the  wind  from  the  sea  swept  through  the  gorse 


MUFTI  267 

and  the  rustling  grasses,  and  kissed  them,  and  passed 
on. 

"There  is  a  hayrick,  I  see,  girl  o'  mine,"  said  Vane, 
"Let's  go  and  sit  under  it.  And  in  defiance  of  all 
laws  and  regulations  we  will  there  smoke  a  cigarette." 

They  reached  the  sheltered  side  of  it,  and  Vane 
threw  down  his  coat  on  the  ground  for  her  to  sit  on. 

"Aren't  you  forgetting  something?"  she  whispered, 
and  he  drew  her  into  his  arms  and  kissed  her.  Then 
he  made  her  sit  down,  and  arranged  the  coat  around 
her  shoulders. 

"You  come  in  too,"  she  ordered.  "There's  plenty 
of  room  for  both.  ..." 

And  so  with  his  arm  around  her  waist,  and  his 
cheek  touching  hers  they  sat  for  awhile  in  silence. 

Then  suddenly  Vane  spoke.  "Grey  girl — I'm  going 
away  to-day." 

"Going  away?"  She  echoed  the  words  and 
stared  at  him  incredulously.  "But  .  .  .  but  ...  I 
thought  .  .  ." 

"So  did  I,"  he  returned  quietly.  "When  I  came 
down  here  yesterday  I  had  only  one  thought  in  my 
mind— and  that  was  to  make  you  give  up  Baxter.  I 
wanted  it  from  purely  selfish  reasons ;  I  wanted  it 
because  I  wanted  you  myself.  .  .  ." 

"And  don't  you  now  ?"    Her  voice  was  wondering. 

"More — infinitely  more — than  I  did  before.  But 
there's  one  thing  I  want  even  more  than  that — your 
happiness."  He  was  staring  steadily  over  the  great 
stretch  of  open  country  to  where  Crowborough  lay  in 
the  purple  distance.  "When  you  came  to  me  last 
night,  little  Joan,  I  thought  I  should  suffocate  with  the 
happiness  of  it.  It  seemed  so  gloriously  trustful  of 


268  MUFTI 

you  .  .  .  though,  I  must  admit  that  idea  did  not  come 
at  first.  You  see  I'm  only  a  man ;  and  you're  a  lovely 
girl.  .  .  ."  He  laughed  a  little  shortly.  "I'd  made 
up  my  mind  to  drift  these  next  two  or  three  days, 
and  then  when  you  came  it  seemed  to  be  a  direct 
answer  to  the  problem.  I  didn't  realise  just  to  begin 
with  that  you  weren't  quite  capable  of  thinking  things 
out  for  yourself.  ...  I  didn't  care,  either.  It  was 
you  and  I — a  woman  and  a  man;  it  was  the  answer. 
And  then  you  started  to  cry — in  my  arms.  The  strain 
had  been  too  much.  Gradually  as  you  cried  and  clung 
to  me,  all  the  tearing  overmastering  passion  went — 
and  just  a  much  bigger  love  for  you  came  instead  of 
it.  ...  You  see,  it  seemed  to  me  that  you,  in  your 
weakness  last  night,  had  placed  the  settlement  on  my 
shoulders.  .  .  ." 

"It's  there  now,  dear  man/'  she  whispered.  "I'd 

just  got  tired,  tired,  tired  of  fighting And  last 

night  it  all  seemed  so  clear."  With  her  breast  rising 
and  falling  quickly  she  stared  over  the  hills,  and  Vane 
watched  her  with  eyes  full  of  love. 

"I  know  it  did — last  night/'  he  answered. 

"Don't  you  understand,"  she  went  on  after  a  mo- 
ment, "that  a  woman  wants  to  have  her  mind  made 
up  for  her?  She  doesn't  want  arguments  and  points 
of  view — she  wants  to  be  taken  into  a  man's  arms, 
and  kissed,  and  beaten  if  necessary.  ...  I  don't  know 
what  was  the  matter  with  me  last  night ;  I  only  know 
that  I  was  lying  in  bed  feeling  all  dazed  and  bruised 
— and  then  suddenly  I  saw  the  way  out.  To  come  to 
you — and  get  things  settled."  She  turned  on  him 
and  her  face  was  very  tense.  "You  weren't — you 


MUFTI  269 

weren't  shocked/'  her  voice  was  very  low.  "Not 
disgusted  with  me/' 

Vane  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed.  "My  lady/' 
he  said  after  a  moment,  "forgive  my  laughing.  But  if 
you  could  even,  in  your  wildest  dreams,  imagine  the 
absurdity  of  such  an  idea,  you'd  laugh  too.  .  .  ."  Then 
he  grew  serious  again,  and  stabbed  at  the  ground  with 
the  point  of  his  stick.  "Do  you  suppose,  dear,  that 
I  wouldn't  sooner  have  taken  that  way  out  myself? 
Do  you  suppose  that  the  temptation  to  take  that  way 
out  isn't  beating  and  hammering  at  me  now?  .  .  . 
That's  why  I've  got  to  go.  .  .  ." 

"What  do  you  mean  ?"    Her  face  was  half-averted. 

"I  mean,"  he  answered  grimly,  "that  if  I  stopped 
at  Melton  to-night,  I  should  come  to  your  room.  As 
I  think  I  said  before,  I'm  just  a  man,  and  you're  a 
lovely  girl — and  I  adore  you.  But  I  adore  you  suffi- 
ciently to  run  away  from  a  temptation  that  I  know 
would  defeat  me.  .  .  ." 

She  turned  and  faced  him.  "And  supposing  I  want 
it  to  defeat  you?" 

"Ah!  don't— don't.  .  .  .  For  the  love  of  God — 
don't!"  he  cried,  getting  up  and  striding  away.  He 
stood  with  his  back  towards  her,  while  a  large  variety 
of  separate  imps  in  his  brain  assured  him  that  he  was 
an  unmitigated  fool. 

"For  Heaven's  sake ! — take  what  the  gods  offer  you," 
they  sang.  "Here  in  the  cold  light  of  day,  where 
there's  no  question  of  her  being  overwrought,  she's 
asking  you  to  settle  things  for  her.  Take  it,  you 
fool,  take  it.  .  .  ." 

And  the  god  who  concerned  himself  with  that  par- 
ticular jig-saw  among  a  hundred  others  paused  for  a 


270  MUFTI 

moment  and  gave.no  heed  to  the  ninety-nine.  Then  he 
turned  over  two  or  three  pages  to  see  what  was  coming, 
and  forthwith  lost  interest.  It  is  a  bad  thing  to  skip 
— even  for  a  god. 

Suddenly  Vane  felt  Joan's  hand  on  his  arm,  and 
looking  down  he  found  her  at  his  side. 

"Don't  you  understand,  dear  man  ?"  she  said.  "I'm 
frightened  of  being  left  to  decide  .  .  .  just  frightened 
to  death." 

"And  don't  you  understand,  dear  girl,"  he  answered, 
"that  I'm  frightened  of  deciding  for  you?  If  one 
decides  wrong  for  oneself — well,  it's  one's  own  funeral. 
But  if  it's  for  somebody  else — and  it's  their 
funeral.  .  .  ." 

"Even  if  the  other  person  begs  you  to  do  it?" 

"Even  if  the  other  person  begs  one  to  do  it,"  he 
repeated  gravely.  "Except  that  the  sexes  are  reversed, 
little  Joan — something  much  like  this  happened  not 
long  ago.  And  the  woman  told  the  man  to  go  and 
make  sure.  ...  I  guess  she  was  frightened  of  staking 
everything  on  a  sudden  rush  of  sex.  She  was  right." 
He  turned  to  her  and  caught  both  her  hands  in  his 
with  a  groan.  "Oh!  my  dear — you  know  what  you 
said  to  me  last  night  before  dinner.  Sex — sex — sex; 
the  most  powerful  weapon  in  the  world — and  the  most 
transitory.  And  I  daren't  use  it — I  just  daren't  any 


more." 


He  caught  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her.  "I  can't 
forget  that  when  you  decided  before — you  decided 
against  me.  Something  has  happened  since  then,  Joan. 
.  .  .  Last  night.  .  .  .  It's  another  factor  in  the  situa- 
tion, and  I  don't  quite  know  how  powerful  it  will 
prove.  It's  too  near,  just  at  present.  .  .  .  It's  out  of 


MUFTI  271 

focus.  But  clear  through  everything  I  know  it  wouldn't 
be  playing  the  game  to  rush  you  with  another — last 
night. 

He  stared  over  her  head,  and  the  wind  blew  the 
tendrils  of  her  hair  against  his  cheek.  "We've  got  to 
get  last  night  into  its  proper  place,  grey  girl,"  he  went 
on  after  a  while.  "And  only  you  can  do  it.  ...  As 
far  as  I'm  concered — why  there's  never  been  any  doubt. 
.  .  .  It's  just  for  you  to  decide.  .  .  ." 

"But  I  don't  want  to  decide."  Her  voice,  a  little 
muffled,  came  from  his  shoulder.  "I  want  you  to 
decide  for  me."  Then,  leaning  away  from  him,  she 
put  both  her  hands  on  his  shoulders.  "Take  me  away, 
Derek — take  me  away  with  you  now.  Let's  go  and 
get  married — just  you  and  I  and  Binks — and  go  right 
away  from  everyone,  and  be  alone."  Once  again  the 
imps  knocked  tauntingly,  but  Vane  only  smiled  gravely 
and  shook  his  head. 

"Where  would  the  difference  be,  darling  ?"  he  asked. 
"Where  would  the  difference  be?  I  guess  it's  not  a 
question  of  with  or  without  benefit  of  clergy  between 
you  and  me." 

Her  hands  fell  to  her  side  wearily,  and  she  turned 
away.  "I  suppose  you're  doing  what  you  think  is 
right,  dear,"  she  said  at  length.  "And  I  can't  take 
you  and  drag  you  to  the  altar,  can  I  ?" 

"I'll  want  no  dragging,  little  Joan,  if  you're  of  the 
same  mind  in  a  fortnight's  time."  Then  suddenly  he 
caught  both  her  hands  in  his.  "My  dear,  my  dear!" 
he  cried  hoarsely ;  "don't  you  see  I  must  give  you  time 
to  make  sure?  I  must.  .  .  ." 

She  shook  her  head.  "I've  had  too  much  time  al- 
ready, Derek.  I'm  frightened  of  time;  I  don't  want 


272  MUFTI 

to  think.  ...  Oh!  boy,  boy,  don't  let  me  think;  just 
take  me,  and  think  for  me.  .  .  ." 

But  once  again  Vane  smiled  gravely,  and  shook  his 
head.  "We  can't  dodge  it  like  that,  my  darling — we 
just  can't.  .  .  ."  He  bent  down  to  pick  up  his  coat, 
and  the  god  in  charge  sent  a  casual  glance  in  their 
direction,  to  see  that  matters  were  progressing  favour- 
ably. And  when  he  saw  the  little  hopeless  smile  on 
the  girl's  face  he  turned  to  one  of  his  pals. 

"It's  too  easy,"  he  remarked  in  a  bored  voice,  and 
turned  his  attention  to  a  struggling  curate  with  four 
children  who  had  married  for  love.  .  .  . 

And  so  that  afternoon  Vane  acted  according  to  his 
lights.  Maybe  it  was  wisdom,  maybe  it  was  folly,  but 
the  point  is  immaterial,  for  it  was  written  in  the  Book 
of  the  Things  that  Happen. 

He  went,  telling  his  host  that  he  had  found  fresh 
orders  at  the  Post  Office  that  morning:  and  the  girl 
waved  her  handkerchief  at  him  from  her  bedroom 
window  as  the  car  went  down  the  drive. 

For  one  brief  moment  after  lunch  they  had  been 
alone — but  she  had  made  no  further  attempt  to  keep 
him.  She  had  just  kissed  him  once,  and  listened  to 
his  words  of  passionate  love  with  a  grave  little  smile. 
"Only  a  fortnight,  my  darling/'  he  had  told  her.  "But 
we  must  give  it  that.  You  must  be  sure."  And  he 
had  been  too  much  taken  up  with  his  own  thoughts 
to  notice  the  weariness  in  her  eyes. 

She  said  nothing  to  him  of  the  unread  letter  lying 
on  her  dressing-table  upstairs,  and  not  till  long  after 
he  had  gone  did  she  pick  up  the  envelope  and  turn  it 


MUFTI  273 

over  and  over  in  her  fingers.  Then,  at  last,  she  opened 
it. 

It  was  just  in  the  same  vein  as  all  the  letters  her 
father  was  writing  her  at  this  period.  Brimming  over 
with  hope  and  confidence  and  joy  and  pleasure;  plan- 
ning fresh  beauties  for  their  beloved  Bland  ford — he 
always  associated  Joan  with  himself  in  the  possession 
of  it;  scheming  how  she  was  to  come  and  stay  with 
him  for  long  visits  each  year  after  she  was  married. 
It  was  the  letter  of  a  man  who  had  come  out  of  the 
darkness  of  worry  into  the  light  of  safety;  and  as  in 
all  the  others,  there  was  the  inevitable  reference  to 
the  black  times  that  were  over. 

Slowly  the  dusk  came  down,  the  shadows  deepened 
in  the  great  trees  outside.  The  Downs  faded  into  a 
misty  blur,  and  at  length  she  turned  from  the  window. 
In  the  flickering  light  of  the  fire  she  threw  herself 
face  downwards  on  her  bed.  For  an  hour  she  lay 
there  motionless,  while  the  shadows  danced  merrily 
around  her,  and  darkness  came  down  outside.  Just 
every  now  and  then  a  little  pitiful  moan  came  from 
her  lips;  muffled  and  inarticulate  from  the  depths  of  the 
pillow;  and  once  a  great  storm  of  sobs  shook  her — 
sobs  which  drenched  the  old  scented  linen  with  tears. 
But  for  the  most  part  she  lay  in  silence  with  her  hands 
clenched  and  rigid,  and  thus  did  she  pass  along  the 
way  of  Pain  to  her  Calvary.  .  .  . 

At  six  o'clock  she  rose  and  bathed  her  face,  and 
powdered  her  nose  as  all  normal  women  must  do  be- 
fore facing  an  unsympathetic  world,  even  if  the  tor- 
ments of  Hell  have  got  them  on  the  rack.  Then  with 
firm  steps  she  went  downstairs  to  the  drawing-room, 
and  found  it  empty.  Without  faltering  she  crossed  to 


274  MUFTI 


the  piano,  and  took  from  the  top  of  a  pile  of  music 
"The  Garden  of  Kama."  She  turned  to  the  seventh 
song  of  the  cycle — 

"Ah !  when  Love  comes,  his  wings  are  swift, 
His  ways  are  full  of  quick   surprise; 
'Tis  well  for  those  who  have  the  gift 
To  seize  him  even  as  he  flies.  .  .  ." 


Her  eyes  ran  over  the  well-known  lines,  and  she  sat 
down  at  the  piano  and  sang  it  through.  She  sang  it 
as  she  had  never  sung  before;  she  sang  it  as  she 
would  never  sing  it  again.  For  the  last  note  had  barely 
died  away,  throbbing  into  silence,  when  Joan  took  the 
score  in  her  hands  and  tore  it  across.  She  tore  the 
pages  again,  and  then  she  carried  the  pieces  across 
and  threw  them  into  the  fire.  It  was  while  she  was 
pressing  down  the  remnants  with  a  poker  that  Mrs. 
Sutton  came  into  the  room  and  glanced  at  her  in  mild 
surprise. 

'It's  an  old  song,"  said  Joan  with  a  clear,  ringing 
laugh.  "One  I  shall  never  sing  again.  I'm  tired  of 
it.  .  .  ." 

And  the  god  in  charge  paused  for  a  moment,  and 
wondered  if  it  was  worth  while.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XVII 

MY  hat!"  remarked  the  Adjutant  as  Vane  re- 
ported his  return  to  the  depot  "Can  this 
thing  be  true?  Giving  up  leave.  .  .  ." 

Vane  grinned,  and  seated  himself  on  the  edge  of 
the  table. 

"  There  are  more  things,  Horatio,'  "  he  quoted  ge- 
nially. 

"For  the  love  of  Pete — not  that  hoary  motto/' 
groaned  the  other.  "Want  a  job  of  work?" 

"My  hat !"  laughed  Vane.  "Can  this  thing  be  true? 
Work  at  the  depot?" 

"Try  my  job,"  grunted  Vallance.  "Of  all  the 
bandy-legged  crowd  of  C3  perishers  I've  ever  seen, 
this  crowd  fills  the  bill.  .  .  .  Why  one  damn  fellow 
who's  helping  in  the  cook-house — peeling  potatoes — 
says  it  gives  him  pains  in  the  stummick.  .  .  .  Work 
too  hard.  .  .  .  And  in  civil  life  he  was  outside  porter 
in  a  goods  yard."  He  relapsed  into  gloomy  silence. 

"What  about  this  job?"  prompted  Vane. 

The  Adjutant  lit  a  cigarette.  "I  can  easily  send 
over  a  subaltern,  if  you  like,"  he  said;  but  you  might 
find  it  a  good  trip.  It's  a  draft  for  the  sixth  battalion 
in  Ireland ;  you'll  have  to  cross  and  hand  'em  over  in 
Dublin." 

Vane  thought  for  a  moment  and  then  nodded.  "I'd 

275 


276  MUFTI 

like  it,"  he  said.  "I  rather  want  something  to  do  at 
the  moment.  .  .  ." 

"Right,  old  boy.  Start  to-morrow.  Come  round 
about  ten,  and  I'll  give  you  the  papers." 

Vane  saluted  and  left  the  orderly  room.  The 
prospect  of  the  trip  pleased  him;  as  he  had  said,  at 
the  moment  he  wanted  something  to  do.  Though  it 
was  only  the  day  before  that  he  had  left  her,  the  temp- 
tation to  go  back  to  Joan — or  at  any  rate  write  to  her 
— was  growing  in  strength.  Already  he  was  cursing 
himself  as  a  fool  for  having  acted  as  he  had;  and  yet 
he  knew  that  he  had  done  right.  It  had  to  be  left  for 
her  to  decide.  .  .  . 

And  if  ...  Vane  shrugged  his  shoulders  at  the 
thought. 

Three  days  later  he  had  safely  shepherded  his  flock 
across  the  water,  and  handed  it  over  to  his  relief.  The 
trip  had  been  uneventful,  save  for  the  extraordinary 
feat  of  two  of  the  men  who  had  managed  to  become 
incapably  drunk  on  Government  beer ;  and  Vane  hav- 
ing spent  a  night  in  Dublin,  and  inspected  the  scene 
of  the  Sackville  Street  fighting  with  a  sort  of  amazed 
surprise,  prepared  to  board  the  S.S.  "Connaught"  for 
the  return  crossing. 

Was  it  not  all  written  in  the  Book  of  the  Words? 

He  might  have  stopped  for  a  day's  cubbing — but 
he  did  not;  he  might  have  crossed  the  preceding  eve- 
ning— but  he  had  not.  He  merely  went  on  board  the 
"Connaught,"  and  had  an  early  lunch,  which,  in  all 
conscience,  was  a  very  normal  proceeding.  There 
were  a  few  soldiers  on  board,  but  for  the  most  part 
the  passengers  consisted  of  civilians,  with  a  heavy  per- 


MUFTI  277 

centage  of  women  and  children.  There  were  a  few 
expensive-looking  gentlemen  in  fur  coats,  who  retired 
early  to  their  cabins,  and  whom  Vane  decided  must 
be  Members  of  Parliament.  The  smoking-room  was 
occupied  by  a  party  of  six  young  Irishmen,  all  of  them 
of  military  age,  who  announced  freely  for  the  benefit 
of  anyone  who  cared  to  listen — and  it  was  not  easy 
to  avoid  doing  so — that  they  were  Sinn  Feiners.  For 
a  while  Vane  studied  them,  more  to  distract  his  own 
thoughts  than  for  any  interest  in  their  opinions.  It 
struck  him  that  they  were  the  exact  counterpart  of  the 
new  clique  of  humanity  which  has  sprung  up  recently 
on  this  side  of  the  Irish  Sea;  advanced  thinkers  with- 
out thought — the  products  of  a  little  education  without 
the  ballast  of  a  brain.  Wild,  enthusiastic  in  their  de- 
sire for  change,  they  know  not  what  they  want  as  the 
result  of  the  change.  Destructive  without  being  con- 
structive, they  bemuse  themselves  with  long  words, 
and  scorn  simplicity.  No  scheme  is  too  wild  or  lunatic 
for  them,  provided  they  themselves  are  in  the  lime- 
light. .  .  .  And  as  for  the  others — qu'importe?  .  .  . 
Self  is  their  God;  the  ill-digested,  half -understood 
schemes  of  great  thinkers  their  food ;  talk  their  recre- 
ation. And  they  play  overtime.  .  .  . 

He  opened  the  smoking-room  door  and  stepped  out 
on  to  the  deck.  For  a  few  moments  he  stood  still 
watching  the  water  slip  by,  and  drawing  in  great 
mouthfuls  of  fresh  air.  He  felt  he  wanted  to  purge 
himself  of  the  rotten  atmosphere  he  had  just  left. 
Then  with  slow,  measured  steps  he  began  to  pace  up 
and  down  the  deck.  The  majority  of  the  passengers 
were  sitting  muffled  up  in  deck  chairs,  but,  unlike  the 
Boulogne  boat,  there  was  plenty  of  room  to  walk ;  and 


278  MUFTI 

Vane  was  of  the  particular  brand  who  always  think 
more  easily  when  they  move. 

And  he  wanted  to  think  of  Joan.  He  had  not 
thought  of  much  else  since  he  had  left  her — but  the 
subject  never  tired.  He  could  feel  her  now  as  she  had 
lain  in  his  arms ;  he  could  still  smell  the  soft  fragrance 
of  her  hair.  The  wind  was  singing  through  the  rig- 
ging, and  suddenly  the  wonder  of  her  came  over  him 
in  a  great  wave  and  he  stared  over  the  grey  sea  with 
shining  eyes. 

After  a  while  he  tapped  out  his  pipe,  and  prepared 
to  fill  it  again.  It  was  as  he  stood,  with  his  tobacco 
pouch  open  in  his  hand,  that  something  in  the  sea  at- 
tracted his  attention.  He  grew  rigid,  and  stared  at 
it — and  at  the  same  moment  a  frantic  ringing  of  the 
engine-room  bell  showed  that  the  officer  on  the  bridge 
had  seen  it  too.  Simultaneously  everyone  seemed  to 
become  aware  that  something  was  wrong — and  for  a 
brief  second  almost  a  panic  occurred.  The  ship  was 
swinging  to  port,  but  Vane  realised  that  it  was  hope- 
less: the  torpedo  must  get  them.  And  the  seagulls 
circling  round  the  boat  shrieked  discordantly  at  him. 
.  .  .  He  took  a  grip  of  the  rail,  and  braced  himself  to 
meet  the  shock.  Involuntarily  he  closed  his  eyes — the 
devil  ...  it  was  worse  than  a  crump — you  could 
hear  that  coming — and  this.  .  .  . 

"Quick — get  it  over."  He  did  not  know  he  had 
spoken  .  .  .  and  then  it  came.  .  .  .  There  was  a 
great  rending  explosion — curiously  muffled,  Vane 
thought,  compared  with  a  shell.  But  it  seemed  so  in- 
finitely more  powerful  and  destructive;  like  the  up- 
heaval of  some  great  monster,  slow  and  almost  dig- 
nified compared  with  the  snapping  fury  of  a  smaller 


MUFTI  279 

beast.  It  seemed  as  if  the  very  bowels  of  the  earth  had 
shaken  themselves  and  irrupted. 

The  ship  staggered  and  shook  like  a  stricken  thing, 
and  Vane  opened  his  eyes.  Already  she  was  begin- 
ning to  list  a  little,  and  he  saw  the  gaping  hole  in  her 
side,  around  which  floated  an  indescribable  litter  of 
small  objects  and  bits  of  wood.  The  torpedo  had  hit 
her  forward,  but  with  the  headway  she  still  had  the 
vessel  drifted  on,  and  the  litter  of  debris  came  directly 
underneath  Vane.  With  a  sudden  narrowing  of  his* 
eyes,  he  saw  what  was  left  of  a  girl  turning  slowly 
over  and  over  in  the  still  seething  water. 

Then  he  turned  round  and  looked  at  the  scene  on 
deck.  The  crew  were  going  about  their  job  in  per- 
fect silence,  and  amongst  the  passengers  a  sort  of 
stunned  apathy  prevailed.  The  thing  had  been  so  sud- 
den, that  most  of  them  as  yet  hardly  realised  what  had 
happened. 

He  saw  one  man — a  funny,  little,  pimply  man  with 
spectacles,  of  the  type  he  would  have  expected  to 
wring  his  hands  and  wail — take  off  his  boots  with  the 
utmost  composure,  and  place  them  neatly  side  by  side 
on  the  deck. 

Then  a  large,  healthy  individual  in  a  fur  coat  came 
past  him  demanding  to  see  the  Captain,  and  protesting 
angrily  when  he  was  told  to  go  to  hell. 

"It's  preposterous,  sir,"  he  said  to  Vane ;  "absolutely 
preposterous.  I  insist  on  seeing  the  Captain.  ..." 

"Don't  be  more  of  a  fool  than  you  can  help,"  an- 
swered Vane  rudely.  "It's  not  the  Captain's  'At 
home'  day.  ..." 

And  once  again  it  struck  him  as  it  had  so  often 
struck  him  in  France,  what  an  impossible  thing  it  is 


280  MUFTI 

to  guess  beforehand  how  danger  will  affect  different 
men.  A  woman  beside  him  was  crying  quietly,  and 
endeavouring  to  soothe  a  little  boy  who  clung  to  her 
with  wide-open,  frightened  eyes.  .  .  . 

"Do  you  think  there's  any  danger,  sir  ?"  She  turned 
to  Vane  and  looked  at  him  imploringly. 

"I  hope  not,"  he  answered  reassuringly.  "There 
should  be  enough  boats  to  go  round.  .  .  .  Ah !  look — 
there  is  the  swine." 

Rolling  a  little,  and  just  awash,  the  conning  tower 
of  the  submarine  showed  up  out  of  the  sea  about  half 
a  mile  away,  and  suddenly  Vane  heard  a  voice  beside 
him  cursing  it  bitterly  and  childishly.  He  turned,  to 
find  one  of  the  smoking-room  patriots  shaking  his  fist 
at  it,  while  the  weak  tears  of  rage  poured  down  his 
face.  Afterwards,  on  thinking  the  experience  over, 
Vane  decided  that  that  one  spectacle  had  made  it  al- 
most worth  while.  .  .  . 

Two  boats  were  pulling  away  from  the  ship,  which 
had  already  begun  to  settle  by  the  bows,  and  two  more 
were  in  the  process  of  being  launched,  when  the  Hun 
lived  up  to  his  rightful  reputation.  There  are  times 
when  one  is  nauseated  and  sickened  by  the  revolting 
cant  of  a  repentant  Germany ;  by  the  hypocritical  hum- 
bug that,  at  heart,  the  German  is  a  peace-loving,  gentle 
being  who  has  been  led  away  by  those  above  him.  And 
as  Vane  watched  grimly  the  path  of  the  second,  and 
so  unnecessary  torpedo,  he  felt  an  overmastering  long- 
ing that  some  of  the  upholders  of  the  doctrine  could 
be  on  board. 

The  "Connaught"  was  done  for ;  that  much  was  ob- 
vious to  the  veriest  land-lubber.  And  the  second  tor- 
pedo could  have  but  one  purpose — the  wanton  destruc- 


MUFTI  281 

tion  of  so  many  more  helpless  women.  Besides,  it 
revolted  his  sense  of  sport ;  it  was  like  blowing  a  sitting 
bird  to  pieces  with  a  shot  gun.  .  .  . 

He  saw  it  strike  amidships ;  he  had  a  fleeting  vision 
of  a  screaming,  struggling  boat  load — of  curses  and 
shouts,  and  then  he  knew  no  more.  There  was  a  roar- 
ing in  his  ears,  and  he  seemed  to  be  travelling  through 
great  spaces.  Lights  danced  and  flashed  before  his 
brain,  and  suddenly  he  felt  very  cold.  The  noise  had 
ceased,  and  everything  was  very  still  and  silent.  .  .  . 
The  cold  grew  more  intense,  till  it  seemed  to  eat  into 
him,  and  his  head  grew  curiously  light.  Almost  as  if 
it  was  bursting  with  some  unaccustomed  pressure. 
Then,  just  as  it  seemed  as  if  it  was  the  end,  and  that 
his  skull  would  literally  fly  to  pieces,  relief  came  with 
a  great  rush,  and  Vane  found  himself  gasping  and 
blowing  on  the  surface  of  the  water.  Around  him 
was  a  mass  of  debris,  and  instinctively  he  struck  out 
for  a  deck  chair  that  was  floating  close  by.  He  reached 
it,  and  for  a  long  time  he  clutched  it,  with  only  his 
head  out  of  the  water — content  to  draw  great  gulps  of 
the  air  into  his  panting  lungs.  Then  after  a  while  he 
raised  himself  in  the  water  and  looked  round. 

About  fifty  yards  away  the  "Connaught"  was  sink- 
ing rapidly,  and  Vane  wondered  feebly  how  he  had 
got  where  he  was.  People  were  still  struggling  and 
scrambling  over  her  slanting  decks,  and  he  watched  a 
man  slashing  with  a  knife  at  the  falls  of  a  partially 
filled  boat. 

He  heard  a  voice  cursing  the  man  for  a  fool,  and 
wondered  who  it  was  who  spoke.  Then  the  boat 
crashed  downwards  stern  first,  shooting  its  load  into 
the  water,  and  the  same  voice  croaked,  "I  told  you  so, 


282  MUFTI 

you  bloody  fool.  I  told  you  so."  It  was  then  he  real- 
ised that  the  voice  was  his  own.  .  .  . 

Vane  closed  his  eyes,  and  tried  to  think.  Presum- 
ably the  wireless  messenger  had  sent  out  an  S.O.S.; 
presumably,  in  time,  someone  would  arrive  on  the 
scene.  Until  that  happened  he  must  concentrate  on 
saving  himself.  His  head  was  still  swimming  from 
the  force  of  the  explosion,  and  for  a  long  while  he  lay 
supporting  himself  mechanically  on  the  half  sub- 
merged chair.  Then  he  felt  that  he  was  moving,  and 
opening  his  eyes  he  realised  that  the  ship  had  disap- 
peared. Very  soon  the  suction  stopped,  and  he  found 
himself  alone  on  the  grey,  sullen  water.  In  the  dis- 
tance, bobbing  up  and  down  on  the  short  swell,  he 
could  see  half  a  dozen  boats;  but  close  at  hand  there 
was  nothing  save  the  flotsam  and  wreckage  from  the 
ship.  The  submarine,  as  far  as  he  could  tell,  had  dis- 
appeared; at  any  rate,  he  was  too  low  in  the  water 
to  see  her.  After  a  while  the  ship's  boats,  too,  pulled 
out  of  sight,  and  for  the  first  time  Vane  began  to  feel 
afraid.  What  if  the  S.O.S.  was  not  answered  ?  What 
if  only  the  boats  were  picked  up,  and  he  was  never 
found?  .  .  . 

An  overwhelming  panic  seized  him  and  he  com- 
menced to  shout — a  puny  little  noise  lost  in  the  vast- 
ness  around  him,  and  drowned  by  the  shrieking  of  a 
countless  swarm  of  gulls,  that  fought  over  the  prize 
that  had  come  to  them.  Then  with  a  great  effort  he 
pulled  himself  together.  He  must  keep  his  head  and 
save  his  strength — he  must.  .  .  .  Any  boat  coming 
up  would  be  attracted  to  the  scene  of  the  disaster  by 
the  gulls,  he  repeated  to  himself  over  and  over  again — 
and  then  they  would  see  him. 


MUFTI  283 

He  took  a  fresh  grip  of  the  chair  and  swam  a  few 
strokes  to  keep  warm.  That  was  the  next  point  that 
came  into  his  mind — how  long  could  he  last  before, 
numbed  with  the  cold,  his  grip  on  the  chair  would  relax 
and  he  would  only  have  his  life-belt  to  rely  on?  He 
must  not  get  cold,  he  must  swim  steadily  and  quietly 
to  keep  up  his  circulation — always  keeping  near  the 
gulls.  He  argued  it  out  carefully  in  his  mind,  uncon- 
sciously talking  aloud,  and  when  he  had  decided  what 
he  was  going  to  do  he  nodded  his  head  in  complete 
agreement.  And  then  he  laughed — a  strange,  croak- 
ing laugh  and  apostrophised  a  gull  which  was  circling 
above  his  head.  "How  damn  funny,  old  bird/'  he 
said  still  chuckling;  "how  damn  funny.  ..."  The 
humour  of  the  situation  had  struck  him  suddenly. 
After  the  long  years  in  France  to  be  drowned  like  a 
bally  hen  inside  a  coop !  .  .  . 

Undoubtedly  a  man  clinging  to  a  deck  chair  did  look 
rather  like  a  hen  in  a  coop— a  bedraggled  hen,  most 
certainly,  very  bedraggled.  Not  at  all  the  sort  of 
hen  that  should  be  dished  up  at  the  Carlton  or  the 
Savoy  for  dinner.  A  cheap  and  nasty  hen,  Vane  de- 
cided. .  .  . 

A  splash  of  water  hit  him  in  the  mouth  and  made 
him  sputter  and  cough.  "Pull  yourself  together,  man/' 
he  cried  fiercely;  "for  God's  sake,  pull  yourself  to- 
gether !"  He  realised  that  his  mind  had  been  wander- 
ing ;  he  realised  that  that  way  lay  Death.  He  started  to 
swim  steadily,  keeping  near  the  main  mass  of  wreck- 
age, and  pushing  the  chair  in  front  of  him.  Several 
times  they  bumped  into  things,  and  once  Vane  found 
himself  looking  through  the  bars  of  the  back  of  the 
chair  at  something  which  rolled  and  sogged  in  the 


284  MUFTI 

water.  And  then  it  half  turned,  and  he  saw  it  was  a 
woman.  Some  of  her  hair,  sodden  and  matted,  came 
through  the  openings  of  his  chair,  and  he  watched  the 
floating  tendrils  uncomprehendingly  for  a  while.  Dead 
...  of  course,  she  was  dead  .  .  .  with  the  water 
splashing  ceaselessly  over  her  face.  ...  At  peace; 
she  had  chucked  her  hand  in — given  up  the  useless 
struggle. 

What  chance  was  there  anyway  of  a  boat  coming  in 
time  ?  What  a  fool  he  was  to  go  on,  when  he  felt  so 
tired  and  so  cold?  .  .  .  That  woman  did  not  mind — 
the  one  lying  there  in  the  water  so  close  to  him.  She 
was  perfectly  happy  .  .  .  while  he  was  numb  and 
exhausted.  Why  not  just  lie  on  the  water  and  go  to 
sleep  ?  .  .  .  He  would  keep  the  woman  company,  and 
he  would  be  happy  just  like  her,  instead  of  having  to 
force  his  frozen  hands  to  hold  that  cursed  slippery 
wood.  .  .  . 

And  Joan  would  be  happy,  because  she  would  have 
saved  Bland  ford;  and  Baxter,  damn  him,  he  would 
be  happy ;  and  the  whole  blessed  outfit  would  be  happy 
as  well  as  him  when  he  had  just  dropped  off  to 
sleep.  .  .  . 

He  would  never  have  done  as  a  husband  for  Mar- 
garet; the  idea  was  ridiculous.  Imagine  sitting  down 
and  writing  a  book,  while  she  took  the  pennies  at  the 
door — or  did  he  have  to  take  the  pennies?  Anyway, 
this  settled  the  matter,  and  saved  him  the  trouble  of 
explanation.  He  loathed  explanations;  all  he  wanted 
was  peace  and  quiet  and  rest.  .  . 

What  a  farce  it  all  was;  man  thinking  he  could 
struggle  against  science.  Science  ruled  the  universe — 
aeroplanes,  gas,  torpedoes.  And  it  served  men  right 


MUFTI  285 

for  inventing  them ;  they  should  have  been  more  care- 
ful. The  smile  on  the  dead  German  airman's  face,  as 
he  lay  on  the  ground  near  Poperinghe,  floated  before 
him,  and  he  nodded  his  head  portentously. 

"You're  right,  old  bean,"  he  croaked.  "The  man  I 
want  to  meet  is  the  fool  who  doesn't  think  it's 
funny.  .  .  ." 

And  then  Vane  crossed  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow, 
as  far  as  a  man  may  cross  and  yet  return.  Strange 
figures  crowded  around  him  hemming  him  in  on  every 
side.  The  Boche  whose  brains  he  had  blown  out  near 
Arras  was  there  with  his  shattered  skull,  holding  out 
a  hand  of  greeting — and  Baxter,  grinning  sardonically. 
Margaret — with  a  wealth  of  pity  and  love  shining  on 
her  face,  and  Joan  with  her  grey  eyes  faintly  mocking. 
.  .  .  And  his  tailor  with  the  wart  on  his  nose,  and 
Mrs.  Green,  and  Binks.  .  .  .  They  were  all  there,  and 
then  gradually  they  faded  into  the  great  darkness. 
.  .  .  Everything  was  growing  still,  and  peaceful — 
the  rest  he  wanted  had  come. 

Then  suddenly  they  came  back  again — the  Boche 
and  Baxter  and  the  rest  of  them — and  started  pulling 
him  about.  He  cursed  and  swore  at  them,  but  they 
paid  no  heed;  and  soon  the  agony  he  was  suffering 
became  almost  unbearable.  In  God's  name,  why  could 
not  they  leave  him  alone  ?  .  .  .  He  raved  at  them,  and 
sobbed,  but  it  was  of  no  avail.  They  went  on  inexor- 
ably and  the  creaking  of  the  oars  in  the  rowlocks  of 
the  boat  that  had  picked  him  up  seemed  to  him  to  be 
the  creaking  of  his  arms  and  legs.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

WHEN  Vane  opened  his  eyes  on  reality  again, 
he  found  himself  in  a  strange  room.  For  a 
few  moments  he  lay  very  still,  groping  back  into  a 
half -world  of  grey  shadows.  He  remembered  the  first 
torpedo,  and  then  the  second  one ;  but  after  that  things 
seemed  confused. 

A  man  opened  the  door,  and  came  over  to  his  bed. 

"Feeling  better  ?"  he  remarked  with  a  smile. 

"As  far  as  I  can  make  out  at  the  moment/-  said 
Vane,  "I'm  feeling  perfectly  well.  Where  am  I,  and 
what  happened?  .  .  ." 

"You're  in  a  private  hospital  not  far  from  Liver- 
pool," answered  the  man.  "You  were  very  nearly 
drowned  in  the  'Connaught/  and  you've  had  a  nasty 
knock  on  the  head  as  well.  .  .  .  Feel  at  all  muzzy 
now?'' 

"Not  a  bit/'  said  Vane,  raising  himself  on  his  el- 
bow. "I  hope  they  caught  the  swine/' 

"There  was  a  rumour  three  or  four  days  ago  that 
they  had." 

Vane  stared  at  the  speaker.  "What  did  you  say?" 
he  remarked  at  length. 

"There  was  a  rumour  three  or  four  days  ago  that 
the  submarine  was  sunk,"  repeated  the  other. 

"May  I  ask  how  long  I've  been  here  ?" 

"Ten  days,"  answered  the  doctor.  "But  I  wired  to 
286 


MUFTI  287 

your  depot  that  you  were  safe,  so  you  needn't  worry." 

"With  regard  to  the  depot,"  remarked  Vane  grimly, 
"you  may  take  it  from  me  that  I  don't.  .  .  .  Ten 
days  .  .  .  twelve — fourteen."  He  was  counting  on 
his  fingers.  "Oh!  Hell.  ..." 

"They  forwarded  some  letters  for  you,"  said  the 
doctor.  "I'll  get  them  for  you.  ..." 

"Thanks,"  said  Vane.  "When  is  the  next  train  tcf 
London?" 

"In  about  four  days'  time  as  far  as  you're  con- 
cerned," laughed  the  other. 

He  went  out  of  the  room,  and  Vane  lay  very  still. 
Fourteen  days.  .  .  .  Fourteen  days.  .  .  . 

The  doctor  returned  and  handed  him  about  a  dozen 
letters. 

"They've  been  coming  at  intervals,"  he  remarked. 
"I'm  going  to  send  you  up  a  cup  of  bovril  in  a 
minute.  .  .  ." 

Vane  turned  them  over  rapidly  in  his  hand,  and 
found  that  there  were  only  two  that  counted.  He 
looked  at  the  postmarks  to  get  them  in  the  right  se- 
quence, and  eagerly  pulled  out  the  contents  of  the  first. 
It  had  been  written  four  days  after  he  left  Melton. 

"Dear  lad,  I'm  leaving  here  to-morrow,  and  I  am 
going  back  to  Blandf ord ;  but  before  I  go  I  want  to  tell 
you  something.  A  man  is  not  a  very  good  judge  of  a. 
woman's  actions  at  any  time;  he's  so  apt  to  see  them 
through  his  own  eyes.  He  reasons,  and  becomes  log- 
ical, .  .  .  and  perhaps  he's  right.  But  a  woman 
doesn't  want  reasons  or  logic — not  if  she's  in  love. 
She  wants  to  be  whirled  up  breathlessly  and  carried 
away,  and  made  to  do  things;  and  it  doesn't  matter 


288  MUFTI 

whether  they're  right  or  wrong — not  if  she's  in  love. 
Maybe  you  were  right,  Derek,  to  go  away;  but  oh! 
my  dear,  I  would  to  God  you  hadn't." 

A  nurse  cawe  in  with  a  cup  of  bovril,  and  put  it  on 
the  table  by  kis  bed,  and  Vane  turned  to  her  abruptly. 

"Where  are  my  clothes,  Nurse?" 

"You'll  not  be  wanting  clothes  yet  awhile,"  she  an- 
swered with  a  smile.  "I'm  coming  back  shortly  to 
tidy  you  up,"  and  Vane  cursed  under  his  breath  as 
she  left  the  room. 

Then  he  picked  up  the  second  letter  and  opened  it. 
At  first  he  thought  it  was  a  blank  sheet  of  paper,  and 
then  he  saw  that  there  were  a  few  words  in  the  centre 
of  the  page.  For  a  moment  they  danced  before  his 
eyes ;  then  he  pulled  himself  together  and  read  them. 

"  '  'Tis  well  for  those  who  have  the  gift 
To  seize  him  even  as  he  flies.  .  .  .' 

"Oh !  you  fool—you  fool !    Why  didn't  you  ?" 

That  was  all,  and  for  a  long  while  he  lay  and  stared 
at  the  bare  wall  opposite. 

"Why  didn't  you  ?"  The  words  mocked  him,  danc- 
ing in  great  red  letters  on  the  pale  green  distemper, 
and  he  shook  his  feet  at  them  childishly. 

"It's  not  fair,"  he  raved.     "It's  simply  not  fair." 

And  the  god  in  charge  took  a  glance  into  the  room, 
though  to  the  man  in  bed  it  was  merely  a  ray  from  a 
watery  sun  with  the  little  specks  of  dust  dancing  and 
floating  in  it. 

"Of  no  more  account  than  a  bit  of  dirt,"  he  mut- 


MUFTI  289 

tered  cynically.  "It  wasn't  my  fault.  ...  I  never 
asked  to  be  torpedoed.  I  only  did  what  I  thought  was 
right."  He  buried  his  head  in  his  hands  with  a  groan. 

The  nurse  came  once  more  into  the  room,  and  eyed 
him  reproachfully.  "The  bovril  is  quite  cold,"  she 
said  picking  it  up.  "That's  very  naughty  of 
you.  .  .  ." 

He  looked  at  her  and  started  to  laugh.  "I'm  a  very 
naughty  man,  Nurse.  But  for  all  that  you've  got  to 
do  something  for  me.  No — take  away  that  awful 
basin  and  sponge.  ...  I  don't  mind  if  I  am  dirty. 
.  .  .  You've  got  to  go  and  bring  the  doctor  here,  and 
you've  got  to  get  my  clothes.  And  between  us,  Nurse, 
we'll  cheat  'em  yet." 

"Cheat  whom  ?"  she  asked  soothingly. 

"The  blind,  malignant  imps  that  control  us  wretched 
humans,"  he  answered.  "For  Heaven's  sake!  my 
dear  woman,  do  what  I  say.  I'm  not  light-headed, 
believe  me." 

And  the  nurse  being  a  stoical  and  unimaginative 
lady,  it  was  just  as  well  that,  at  that  moment,  the  doc- 
tor entered  the  room.  For  had  she  murmured  in  her 
best  bedside  manner.  .  .  .  "That's  quite  all  right.  Just 
a  nice  wash,  and  then  we'll  go  to  sleep,"  there  is  but 
little  doubt  that  a  cup  of  cold  bovril  would  have  del- 
uged her  ample  form.  As  it  was  the  catastrophe  was 
averted,  and  Vane  turned  to  the  doctor  with  a  sigh  of 
relief. 

"May  I  have  a  word  with  you  alone,  Doctor?"  he 
said.  "And,  Nurse,  would  you  get  my  clothes  for 
me?" 

"Doctor,"  he  went  on  as  the  door  closed  behind  her* 
"I've  got  to  go — at  once/' 


290  MUFTI 

"My  dear  fellow,"  began  the  other,  but  Vane  si- 
lenced him  with  a  wave  of  his  hand. 

"I  may  have  had  concussion ;  I  may  have  been  nearly 
drowned.  I  may  be  the  fool  emperor  for  wanting  to 
get  up,"  he  continued  quietly.  "But  it's  got  to  be  done. 
You  see,  I'm  having  a  bit  of  a  tussle  with  .  .  ."  he 
paused  for  a  moment  as  if  at  a  loss  for  a  word,  and 
then  added  whimsically,  "with  the  Powers  that  run 
Ihings.  And/'  savagely,  "I'll  be  damned  if  they're  go- 
ing to  have  a  walk  over.  ..." 

The  doctor  eyed  him  gravely  for  a  few  moments 
without  replying. 

"You  oughtn't  to  get  up  yet,"  he  said  at  length. 

"But  you'll  let  me,"  cried  Vane. 

"There's  a  good  train  in  two  hours,"  replied  the 
other  briefly.  "And  the  result  be  upon  your  own 
head.  ..." 

Vane  opened  the  remainder  of  his  letters  on  the  way 
up  to  London.  He  felt  a  little  dazed  and  weak,  though 
otherwise  perfectly  fit,  and  when  he  had  glanced 
through  them,  he  stared  out  of  the  window  at  the 
landscape  flashing  past.  They  were  passing  through 
the  Black  Country,  and  it  seemed  to  him  to  be  in  keep- 
ing with  his  thoughts — dour,  relentless,  grim.  The 
smouldering  blast-furnaces,  the  tall,  blackened  chim- 
neys, the  miles  of  dingy,  squalid  houses,  all  mocked  the 
efforts  of  their  makers  to  escape. 

"You  fashioned  us,"  they  jeered;  "out  of  your 
brains  we  were  born,  and  now  you  shall  serve  us  ever- 
more. .  .  .  You  cannot — you  shall  not  escape.  ..." 

To  Vane  it  was  all  the  voice  of  Fate.  "You  cannot 
• — you  shall  not  escape.  What  is  to  be — is  to  be ;  and 


MUFTI  291 

your  puny  efforts  will  not  alter  a  single  letter  in  the 
book.  ..." 

And  yet  of  his  own  free  will  he  had  left  Joan;  he 
had  brought  it  on  himself." 

"What  if  I  had  done  as  she  wished?"  he  demanded 
aloud.  "What  would  you  have  done  then,  you  swine  ?" 

But  there  is  no  answer  in  this  world  to  the  Might- 
have-been;  only  silence  and  imagination,  which,  at 
times,  is  very  merciless. 

He  stepped  out  of  the  train  at  Euston  and  drove 
straight  to  his  rooms.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life 
he  took  no  notice  of  Binks,  and  that  worthy,  knowing 
that  something  was  wrong,  just  sat  in  his  basket  and 
waited.  Perhaps  later  he'd  be  able  to  help  some- 
how. .  .  . 

"The  young  lady  who  came  to  tea  was  round  here 
four  or  five  days  ago,  Mr.  Vane,"  said  Mrs.  Green, 
when  she  had  set  a  match  to  the  fire. 

Vane  sat  very  still.  "And  what  did  she  want,  Mrs. 
Green?" 

"To  see  you,  sir.  She  said  that  she  had  rung  up  the 
depot,  and  the  man  who  answered  said  you  were  on 
leave.  ..." 

"He  would,"  said  Vane,  grimly. 

"So  she  came  here."  Mrs.  Green  paused,  and 
watched  him  with  a  motherly  eye ;  then  she  busied  her- 
self needlessly  over  the  fire.  "I  found  her  with  Binks 
in  her  arms — and  she  seemed  just  miserable.  'Oh! 
can't  you  tell  me  where  he  is,  Mrs.  Green?'  she  said. 
'I  can't,  my  dear,'  said  I,  'for  I  don't  know  my- 
self. .  .  .'  And  then  she  picked  up  a  piece  of  paper 
and  wrote  a  few  words  on  it,  and  sealed  it  up,  and  ad- 
dressed it  to  you  at  Murchester.  ..." 


292  MUFTI 

"Ah!"  said  Vane  quietly.  "She  wrote  it  here,  did 
she?"  He  laughed  a  short,  bitter  laugh.  "She  was 
right,  Mrs.  Green.  I  had  the  game  in  my  hands,  and 
I  chucked  it  away."  He  rose  and  stared  grimly  at 
the  houses  opposite.  "Did  she  say  by  any  chance 
where  she  was  staying  ?" 

"Ashley  Gardens,  she  said;  and  if  you  came  in,  I 
was  to  let  you  know." 

"Thank  you,  Mrs.  Green."  He  turned  round  at 
length,  and  took  up  the  telephone  book.  "You  might 
let  me  have  some  tea.  ..." 

The  worthy  woman  bustled  out  of  the  room,  shak- 
ing her  head.  Like  Binks,  she  knew  that  something 
was  very  wrong;  but  the  consolation  of  sitting  in  a 
basket  and  waiting  for  the  clouds  to  roll  by  was  denied 
her.  For  the  Humans  have  to  plot  and  contrive  and 
worry,  whatever  happens.  .  .  . 

"Is  that  Lady  Auldfearn's?"  Vane  took  the  tele- 
phone off  the  table.  "Oh!  Lady  Auldfeara  speaking? 
I'm  Captain  Vane.  ...  Is  Miss  Devereux  stopping 
with  you?  Just  left  yesterday,  you  say.  .  .  .  Yes — 
I  rather  wanted  to  see  her.  Going  to  be  where?  At 
the  Mainwarings'  dance  to-night.  Thank  you.  But 
you  don't  know  where  she  is  at  present.  .  .  . " 

He  hung  up  the  receiver,  and  sat  back  in  his  chair, 
with  a  frown.  Then  suddenly  a  thought  struck  him, 
and  he  pulled  the  letters  he  had  received  that  morning 
out  of  his  pocket.  He  extracted  one  in  Nancy  Small- 
wood's  sprawling  handwriting,  and  glanced  through 
it  again  to  make  sure, 

"Dine  8  o'clock — and  go  on  to  Mainwarings'  dance 
afterwards.  .  .  .  Do  come,  if  you. can.  .  .  ." 

Vane,  placing  it  on  the  table  in  front  of  him,  bowed 


MUFTI  293 

to  it  profoundly.    "We  might,"  he  remarked  to  Binks, 
"almost  have  it  framed." 

And  Binks'  quivering  tail  assented,  with  a  series  of 
thumps  against  his  basket. 

"I  hope  you  won't  find  your  dinner  partner  too 
dreadful."  Nancy  Smallwood  was  shooting  little  bird- 
like  glances  round  the  room  as  she  greeted  Vane  that 
evening.  "She  has  a  mission  ...  or  two.  Keeps 
soldiers  from  drinking  too  much  and  getting  into  bad 
hands.  Personally,  anything — anything  would  be  bet- 
ter than  getting  into  hers." 

"I  seem,"  murmured  Vane,  "to  have  fallen  on  my 
feet.  She  isn't  that  gargantuan  woman  in  purple,  is 
she?" 

"My  dear  boy!  That's  George's  mother.  You 
know  my  husband.  No,  there  she  is — the  wizened  up 
one  in  black.  .  .  .  And  she's  going  on  to  the  Main- 
warings'  too — so  you'll  have  to  dance  with  her." 

At  any  other  time  Vane  might  have  extracted  some 
humour  from  his  neighbor,  but  to-night,  in  the  mood 
he  was,  she  seemed  typical  of  all  that  was  utterly  futile. 
She  jarred  his  nerves  till  it  was  all  he  could  do  to  reply 
politely  to  her  ceaseless  "We  are  doing  this,  and  we 
decided  that."  To  her  the  war  had  given  an  oppor- 
tunity for  self-expression  which  she  had  hitherto  been 
denied.  Dreadful  as  she  undoubtedly  thought  it  with 
one  side  of  her  nature,  with  another  it  made  her  almost 
happy.  It  had  enabled  her  to  force  herself  into  the 
scheme  of  things;  from  being  a  nonentity,  she  had 
made  herself  a  person  with  a  mission.  .  .  . 

True,  the  doings  and  the  decisions  on  which  she 
harped  continually  were  for  the  benefit  of  the  men  he 


294  MUFTI 

had  led.  But  to  this  woman  it  was  not  the  men  that 
counted  most.  They  had  to  fit  into  the  decisions;  not 
the  decisions  into  them.  .  .  . 

They  were  inexorable,  even  as  the  laws  of  the  Medes 
and  Persians.  And  who  was  this  wretched  woman,  to 
lay  down  the  law  ?  What  did  she  know ;  what  did  she 
understand  ? 

"And  so  we  decided  that  we  must  really  stop  it. 
People  were  beginning  to  complain;  and  we  had  one 
or  two — er — regrettable  scandals." 

With  a  start  Vane  woke  up  from  his  reverie  and 
'realised  he  had  no  idea  what  she  was  talking  about. 

"Indeed,"  he  murmured.    "Have  a  salted  almond?'* 

"Don't  you  think  we  were  right,  Captain  Vane?" 
she  pursued  inexorably.  "The  men  are  exposed  to  so 
many  temptations  that  the  least  we  can  do  is  to  remove 
those  we  can." 

"But  are  they  exposed  to  any  more  now  than  they 
were  before?"  he  remarked  wearily.  "Why  not  let 
'em  alone,  dear  lady,  let  Jem  alone  ?  They  deserve  it." 

At  length  the  ladies  rose,  and  with  a  sigh  of  relief 
Vane  sat  down  next  a  lawyer  whom  he  knew  well. 

"You're  looking  pretty  rotten,  Derek,"  he  said,  look- 
ing at  Vane  critically. 

"I've  been  dining  next  a  woman  with  a  mission,"  he 
answered.  "And  I  was  nearly  drowned  in  the  'Con- 
naught.'  ' 

The  lawyer  looked  at  him  keenly.  "And  the  two 
combined  have  finished  you  off." 

"Oh!  no.  I'm  reserving  my  final  effort  for  the 
third.  I'll  get  that  at  the  Mainwarings'."  He  lifted 
his  glass  and  let  the  ruby  light  glint  through  his  port. 
"Why  do  we  struggle,  Jimmy?  Why,  in  Heaven's 


MUFTI  295 

name,  does  anybody  ever  do  anything  but  drift?  Look 
at  that  damned  foolishness  over  the  water.  .  .  .  The 
most  titanic  struggle  of  the  world.  And  look  at  the 
result.  .  .  .  Anarchy,  rebellion,  strife.  What's  the 
use ;  tell  me  that,  my  friend,  what's  the  use  ?  And  the 
little  struggles — the  personal  human  struggles — are 
just  as  futile.  ..." 

The  lawyer  thoughtfully  lit  a  cigarette.  "It's  not 
only  you  fellows  out  there,  Derek,"  he  said,  "who  are 
feeling  that  way.  We're  all  of  us  on  the  jump,  and 
we're  all  of  us  bottling  it  up.  The  result  is  a  trial  such 
as  we  had  the  other  day,  with  witnesses  and  judge 
screaming  at  each  other,  and  dignity  trampled  in  the 
mud.  Every  soul  in  England  read  the  case — generally 
twice — before  anything  else.  You  could  see  'em  all  in 
the  train — coming  up  to  business — with  the  sheet  on 
which  it  was  reported  carefully  taken  out  of  its  proper 
place  and  put  in  the  centre  qf  the  paper  so  that  they 
could  pretend  they  were  reading  the  war  news." 

Vane  laughed.  "We  were  better  than  that.  We 
took  it,  naked  and  unashamed,  in  order  of  seniority. 
And  no  one  was  allowed  to  read  any  tit-bit  out  loud 
for  fear  of  spoiling  it  for  the  next  man." 

Jimmy  Charters  laughed  shortly.  "We're  just 
nervy,  and  sensationalism  helps.  It  takes  one  out  of 
one's  self  for  a  moment;  one  forgets." 

"And  the  result  is  mud  flung  at  someone,  some 
class.  No  matter  whether  it's  true;  no  matter  whether 
it's  advisable — it's  mud.  And  it  sticks  alike  to  the 
just  and  the  unjust;  while  the  world  looks  on  and 
sneers;  and  over  the  water,  the  men  look  on  and — • 
die." 

George   Small  wood   was  pushing  back  his  chair. 


296  MUFTI 

"Come  on,  you  fellows.  The  Cuthberts  will  advance 
from  their  funk-holes."  .  .  .  He  led  the  way  towards 
the  door,  and  Vane  rose. 

"Don't  pay  any  attention  to  what  I've  been  saying, 
Jimmy."  The  lawyer  was  strolling  beside  him.  "It's 
liver;  I'll  take  a  dose  of  salts  in  the  morning." 

Jimmy  Charters  looked  at  him  in  silence  for  a  mo- 
ment. 

"I  don't  know  what  the  particular  worry  is  at  the 
moment,  old  man,"  he  said  at  length,  "but  don't  let  go. 
I'm  no  sky  pilot,  but  I  guess  that  somewhere  up  top- 
sides  there's  a  Big  Controller  Who  understands.  .  .  . 
Only  at  times  the  pattern  is  a  bit  hard  to  follow.  ..." 

Vane  laughed  hardly.  "It's  likely  to  be  when  the 
fret-saw  slips." 

Vane  strolled  into  the  ballroom  and  glanced  round, 
but  there  was  no  sign  of  Joan;  and  then  he  saw  that 
there  was  another,  smaller,  room  leading  off  the  prin- 
cipal one  where  dancing  seemed  to  be  in  progress  also. 
He  walked  towards  it,  and  as  he  came  to  the  door  he 
stopped  abruptly  and  his  eyes  narrowed.  In  the 
middle  of  it  Joan  was  giving  an  exhibition  dance,  sup- 
ported by  a  youth  in  the  Flying  Corps. 

The  audience  seated  round  the  sides  of  the  room  was 
applauding  vociferously,  and  urging  the  dancers  on  to 
greater  efforts.  And  then  suddenly  Joan  broke  away 
from  her  partner  and  danced  alone,  while  Vane  leaned 
against  the  door  with  his  jaw  set  in  a  straight,  hard 
line.  Once  his  eyes  travelled  round  the  faces  of  the 
men  who  were  looking  on,  and  his  fists  clenched  at  his 
sides.  There  was  one  elderly  man  in  particular,  with 


MUFTI  297 

protruding  eyes,  who  roused  in  him  a  perfect  fury  of 
rage.  .  .  . 

It  was  a  wild,  daring  exhibition — a  mass  of  swirling 
draperies  and  grey  silk  stockings.  More,  it  was  a  won- 
derful exhibition.  She  was  dancing  with  a  reckless 
abandon  which  gradually  turned  to  sheer  devilry,  and 
she  began  to  circle  the  room  close  to  the  guests  who 
lined  the  walls.  There  were  two  men  in  front  of  Vane, 
and  as  she  came  near  the  door  he  pushed  forward  a 
little  so  that  he  came  in  full  view.  For  the  moment 
he  thought  she  was  going  to  pass  without  seeing  him, 
and  then  their  eyes  met.  She  paused  and  faltered,  and 
then  swinging  round  sank  gracefully  to  the  floor  in  the 
approved  style  of  curtsey  to  show  she  had  finished. 

The  spectators  clamoured  wildly  for  an  encore,  but 
she  rose  and  came  straight  up  to  Vane. 

"Where  have  you  been  ?"  she  said. 

"Unconscious  in  hospital  for  ten  days,"  he  answered 
grimly.  "I  went  down  in  the  'Connaught/  .  .  . 
May  I  congratulate  you  on  your  delightful  perform- 
ance ?" 

For  a  second  or  two  he  thought  she  was  going  to 
faint,  and  instinctively  he  put  out  his  arm  to  hold  her. 
Then  the  colour  came  back  to  her  face  again,  and  she 
put  her  arm  through  his. 

"I  want  something  to  eat.  Take  me,  please.  .  .  . 
No,  no,  my  dear  people,  no  more,"  as  a  throng  of 
guests  came  round  her.  "I  require  food." 

Her  hand  on  his  arm  pushed  Vane  forward  and 
obediently  he  led  her  across  the  ballroom. 

"If  there's  any  champagne  get  me  a  glass,"  she 
said,  sitting  down  at  a  table.  "And  a  sandwich.  .  .  ." 


298  MUFTI 

Obediently  Vane  fetched  what  she  desired;  then  he 
sat  down  opposite  her. 

"The  fortnight  is  up,'*  he  said  quietly.  "I  have 
come  for  my  answer." 

"Did  you  get  my  letters?'*  she  asked  slowly. 

"Both.  When  I  came  to  this  morning.  And  I 
wasn't  going  to  be  called  a  fool  for  nothing,  my  lady 
— so  I  got  up  and  came  to  look  for  you.  What  of  the 
excellent  Baxter?  Is  the  date  for  your  wedding 
fixed?" 

She  looked  at  him  in  silence  for  a  moment,  and  then 
she  began  to  laugh.  "The  ceremony  in  church  takes 
place  on  his  return  from  France  in  a  week's  time." 

"Oh!  no,  it  doesn't,"  said  Vane  grimly.  "How- 
ever, we  will  let  that  pass.  May  I  ask  if  your  enter- 
tainment to-night  was  indicative  of  the  joy  you  feel 
at  the  prospect  ?" 

She  started  to  laugh  again,  and  there  was  an  ugly 
sound  in  it.  A  woman  at  the  next  table  was  looking 
at  her  curiously. 

"Stop  that,  Joan,"  he  said  in  a  low,  insistent  voice. 
"For  God's  sake,  pull  yourself  together.  ..." 

She  stopped  at  once,  and  only  the  ceaseless  twisting 
of  her  handkerchief  between  her  fingers  betrayed  her. 

"I  suppose  it  wouldn't  do  to  go  into  a  fit  of  high 
strikes,"  she  said  in  a  voice  she  strove  vainly  to  keep 
steady.  "The  Mainwarings  might  think  it  was  their 
champagne — or  the  early  symptoms  of  'flu — or  un- 
requited love.  .  .  .  And  they  are  so  very  respectable 
aren't  they? — the  Mainwarings,  I  mean?" 

Vane  looked  at  her  gravely.  "Don't  speak  for  a  bit. 
I'll  get  you  another  glass  of  champagne.  ..." 

But  Joan  rose.    "I  don't  want  it,"  she  said.    "Take 


MUFTI  299 

me  somewhere  where  we  can  talk."  She  laid  the  tips 
of  her  ringers  on  his  arm.  "Talk,  my  friend,  for  the 
last  time.  .  .  . " 

"I'm  damned  if  it  is,"  he  muttered  between  his 
clenched  teeth. 

She  made  no  answer;  and  in  silence  he  found  two 
chairs  in  a  secluded  corner  behind  a  screen. 

"So  you  went  down  in  the  'Connaught,'  did  you?" 
Her  voice  was  quite  calm. 

"I  did.    Hence  my  silence." 

"And  would  you  have  answered  my  first  letter,  had 
you  received  it?" 

Vane  thought  for  a  moment  before  answering. 
"Perhaps,"  he  said  at  length.  "I  wanted  you  to  de- 
cide. ,  .  .  But,"  grimly,  "I'd  have  answered  the  sec- 
ond before  now  if  I'd  had  it.  ..." 

"I  wrote  that  in  your  rooms  after  I'd  come  up  from 
Blandford,"  she  remarked,  with  her  eyes  still  fixed  on 
him. 

"So  I  gathered  from  Mrs.  Green.  .  .  .  My  dear, 
surely  you  must  have  known  something  had  hap- 
pened." He  took  one  of  her  hands  in  his,  and  it  lay 
there  lifeless  and  inert. 

"I  thought  you  were  being  quixotic,"  she  said. 
"Trying  to  do  the  right  thing — And  I  was  tired  .  .  . 
my  God !  but  I  was  tired."  She  swayed  towards  him, 
and  in  her  eyes  there  was  despair.  "Why  did  you  let 
me  go,  my  man — why  did  you  let  me  go?" 

"But  I  haven't,  my  lady,"  he  answered  in  a  wonder- 
ing voice.  "To-morrow.  ..."  She  put  her  hand 
over  his  mouth  with  a  little  half-stifled  groan.  "Just 
take  me  in  your  arms  and  kiss  me,"  she  whispered. 


300  MUFTI 

And  it  seemed  to  Vane  that  his  whole  soul  went  out 
of  him  as  he  felt  her  lips  on  his. 

Then  she  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and  looked  at  him 
gravely.  "I  wonder  if  you'll  understand.  I  wonder 
still  more  if  you'll  forgive.  Since  you  wouldn't  settle 
things  for  me  I  had  to  settle  them  for  myself.  .  .  ." 

Vane  felt  himself  growing  rigid. 

"I  settled  them  for  myself/'  she  continued  steadily, 
"or  rather  they  settled  me  for  themselves.  I  tried  to 
make  you  see  I  was  afraid,  you  know  .  .  .  and  you 
wouldn't." 

"What  are  you  driving  at?"  he  said  hoarsely. 

"I  am  marrying  Henry  Baxter  in  church  in  about 
a  week;  I  married  him  in  a  registry  office  the  day  he 
left  for  France/1  / 


EPILOGUE 

A  GREY  mist  was  blowing  tip  the  valley  from 
Cromarty  Firth.  It  hid  the  low  hills  that  flanked 
the  little  branch  railway  line,  slowly  and  imperceptibly 
drifting  and  eddying  through  the  brown  trees  on  their 
slopes.  Down  in  London  a  world  had  gone  mad — but 
the  mist  took  no  heed  of  such  foolishness.  Lines  of 
men  and  women,  linked  arm-in-arm,  were  promenad- 
ing Piccadilly  to  celebrate  the  End  of  the  Madness; 
shrieking  parties  were  driving  to  Wimbledon^  or  Lime- 
house,  or  up  and  down  Bond  Street  in  overweighted 
taxis,  but  the  mist  rolled  on  silently  and  inexorably. 
It  took  account  of  none  of  these  things. 

Since  the  beginning  a  mist  such  as  this  one  had 
drifted  up  the  valley  from  the  open  sea;  until  the  end 
it  would  continue.  ...  It  was  part  of  the  Laws  of 
Nature,  and  the  man  who  watched  it  coming  turned 
with  a  little  shudder. 

In  front  of  him,  the  moors  stretched  brown  and 
rugged  till  they  lost  themselves  in  the  snow-capped 
hills.  Here  and  there  the  bogland  showed  a  darker 
tint,  and  at  his  feet,  cupped  out  in  the  smooth  grey- 
stone,  lay  a  sheet  of  water.  It  was  dark  and  evil- 
looking,  and  every  now  and  then  a  puff  of  wind  eddied 
down  from  the  hills  and  ruffled  the  smooth  surface. 

The  colours  of  the  moors  were  sombre  and  dark; 
and  below  the  snows  far  away  in  the  heart  of  Ross- 

301 


302  MUFTI 

shire  it  seemed  to  the  man  who  watched  with  brooding 
eyes  that  it  was  as  the  blackness  of  night.  A  deserted 
dead  world,  with  a  cold  grey  shroud,  to  hide  its  naked- 
ness. 

He  shivered  again,  and  wiped  the  moisture  from  his 
face,  while  a  terrier  beside  him  crept  nearer  for  com- 
fort. 

And  then  came  the  change.  Swiftly,  triumphantly, 
the  sun  caught  the  mist  and  rolled  it  away.  One  by 
one  the  rugged  lines  of  hills  came  into  being  again — 
one  by  one  they  shouted,  "We  are  free,  behold 
us.  .  .  ." 

The  first  was  a  delicate  brown,  and  just  behind  it  a 
little  peak  of  violet  loomed  up.  Away  still  further  the 
browns  grew  darker,  more  rich — the  violets  became  a 
wondrous  purple.  And  the  black  underneath  the  snows 
seemed  to  be  of  the  richest  velvet. 

The  pond  at  the  man's  feet  glinted  a  turquoise  blue ; 
the  bogland  shone  silver  in  the  sunlight.  And  then, 
to  crown  it  all,  the  smooth  snow  slopes  in  the  distance 
glowed  pink  and  orange,  where  before  they  had  been 
white  and  cold. 

For  Life  had  come  to  a  Land  of  Death. 

Gradually  the  brooding  look  on  the  man's  face  fad- 
ed, a  gleam  of  whimsical  humour  shone  in  his  eyes. 
He  took  an  old  briar  out  of  his  pocket  and  commenced 
to  fill  it;  and  soon  the  blue  smoke  was  curling  lazily 
upwards  into  the  still  air.  But  he  still  stood  motion- 
less, staring  over  the  moors,  his  hands  deep  in  the 
pockets  of  the  old  shooting  coat  he  wore. 

Suddenly  he  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed ;  then 
almost  unconsciously  he  stretched  out  his  arms  to  the 
setting  sun. 


MUFTI  303 

"Thank  you,"  he  cried,  and  with  a  swift  whirring 
of  wings  two  grouse  rose  near  by  and  shot  like  brown 
streaks  over  the  silver  tarn.  "Sooner  or  later  the 
mist  always  goes.  ..." 

He  tapped  out  the  ashes  of  his  pipe,  and  put  it  back 
in  his  pocket.  And  as  he  straightened  himself  up,  of  a 
sudden  it  seemed  to  the  man  that  the  mountains  and 
the  moors,  the  tarn  and  the  bogland  approved  of  the 
change  in  him,  and,  finding  him  worthy,  told  him  their 
message. 

"The  Sun  will  always  triumph,"  they  cried  in  a 
mighty  chorus.  "Sooner  or  later  the  mist  will  always 
go." 

For  a  space  the  man  stood  there,  while  the  sun,  sink- 
ing lower  and  lower,  bathed  the  world  in  glory.  Then, 
he  whistled.  .  .  . 

"Your  last  walk  on  the  moors,  Binks,  old  man,  so 
come  on.  To-morrow  we  go  back." 

And  with  a  terrier  scurrying  madly  through  the 
heather  around  him,  the  man  strode  forward. 


THE  END 


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